


This Song Is Not For You

by Zee (orphan_account)



Category: Bandom
Genre: Cheating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-17
Updated: 2008-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick tries to get things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Song Is Not For You

"You don't have to be careful," Bob says, half-sigh and half-whine. Patrick can see the beads of sweat on the back of Bob's neck, the way his muscles are bunched. Bob pushes his ass back a little against the tip of Patrick's cock and it makes Patrick tighten his hold on Bob's hip, his fingers slipping on sweaty skin.

"I'm not, I just--" Patrick moves his hand to grip Bob's thigh lower down and guides himself in.

"Fuck, _seriously_ man," and there's something uneven and a little cracked in Bob's voice, something that makes Patrick push in hard and sudden. It makes Bob grunt in surprise, his head bowing even more, and it makes Patrick say:

"Happy now?" in a gasping voice that really just doesn't sound like him at all. Bob is tight around him and Patrick's whole body is buzzing with the tension of only being halfway in, of the friction not *quite* starting yet. 

He's got the drummer of My Chemical Romance bent almost in half over their couch with his dick halfway in his ass, and he has no idea what the fuck he's doing.

Bob growls--actually growls, holy shit--and gets one of his knees up on the couch. It makes him spread even more, makes the angle more natural. Patrick doesn't need Bob to say "Stop being *careful*" to make him push all the way in, to make him press his whole body against Bob's backside and go for it.

This is only the third time they've had sex, the second time Patrick's fucked Bob, and it still surprises him how enthusiastic Bob is. He seems to be much louder when he's the one getting fucked, groaning and pushing back and panting and muttering random words that Patrick only half-hears. It makes Patrick wonder if he's like this all the time or if he would be different, be less into it, if Patrick wasn't--

"Fuck, oh god, deeper, I--shit," Bob says, just babbling chains of expletives. Patrick thrusts harder and deeper, grunting when he hears the slap of his balls against Bob's ass. He knows he can do this as hard as he wants, dig his fingers into Bob's skin and fuck him in a way that he knows will leave Bob sore after. He can let himself go here because--well, because he's let himself go there, because somewhere along the line he's stopped being the person he thought he was, and anything else is just icing on the cake.

Patrick has to push Bob down even further to get the height to bite his neck, nipping and kissing at the back of his neck before biting down hard on the flesh between his neck and collarbone. He gives him several deep, short thrusts at the same time and squeezes Bob's dick hard and Bob comes with a stuttering yell, all over the Ikea couch cushions that Patrick helped Bob pick out two weeks ago.

Patrick looks at the semen on the fabric and thinks that it will probably stain. It's shitty of them, soiling these cushions when they're brand new, even if they are both rock stars who can afford all the couch cushions they want. It's the principle of the thing, and Patrick feels guilt prick at him. 

Bob reaches a hand back wildly and grabs at Patrick's hip, pulling him in close. His body's loose now, offering almost no resistance. Patrick gets both hands on Bob's hips and screws him erratically, fast and shallow-then-deep with no rhythm until Patrick feels his orgasm build and crash. He feels boneless as he collapses on Bob's back, limp now inside him, his leg muscles trembling.

Bob grunts and moves, one of his shoulders moving and nudging Patrick. Patrick takes the hint and pulls out, flopping on the couch as Bob turns over and sprawls next to him. Patrick looks out at their living room, so clean and neat-it makes their clothes strewn around all the more obvious: Patrick's shirt and jacket on the floor right by the front door, removed as soon as he came in; Bob's shirt and boxers tossed on the chair next to the couch; Patrick's pants and boxers in a pile by his feet. Patrick is still wearing his socks.

It makes the scene look impulsive and sudden, but Patrick can't blame impulsiveness now (not that he thinks he could blame it ever, not really); he decided he was going to fuck Bob again while stuck in traffic on the way back from Pete's house, fuming from another frustratingly-not-a-fight. He had let himself in to the apartment and taken off his jacket, calling for Bob to come here, and Bob had taken one look at Patrick unbuttoning his shirt and crossed the room.

Beside him now, Bob is tugging on the ends of his bangs and running a hand through his hair, and Patrick knows he wants to smoke. "We're still doing this?" he says, or asks--Patrick isn't sure which.

It pisses Patrick off, because of course Bob has to know that Patrick doesn't have a clue, that he's choosing to be amoral rather than decisive. It doesn't need to be fucking said out loud. Patrick shakes his head.

Bob drums his fingers on his knee. "Okay," he says. "Okay." Then to Patrick's surprise, he smiles--a nice smile, warm and affectionate, a smile Patrick hasn't seen as much since they started fucking. It makes Patrick scoot over to him and kiss him, closing his eyes and cupping Bob's jaw.

And Bob relaxes against him and kisses back with his tongue in Patrick's mouth, because Bob might seem sensible and good and upstanding to everyone else in the whole world, but Patrick knows that he wants to ignore what they're actually doing as much as Patrick does. 

Patrick thinks that if Bob had pushed him away that first time, if Bob had demanded that Patrick break up with Pete first with righteous indignation in his voice, Patrick would probably be in love with him by now. He might have even left Pete for Bob, actually; he's not sure, but maybe. As it is, Patrick isn't in love, he's just in this, whatever this is. 

"I was going to order in Thai, we don't really have anything to make dinner," Bob says, leaning back to look at Patrick, and his eyes are really blue and Patrick is fucked. "You want some?"

There's a lack of food in the apartment because it's Patrick's turn to buy groceries, but Patrick elected to have a nervous breakdown about cheating on his boyfriend and bassist with his roommate instead of buying groceries this week. "Yeah, sure. Uh, Pad Thai? Or actually, is that Chinese?"

Bob shrugs. "I'll get you something with noodles." He stands and walks to the kitchen for the takeout menus naked, and Patrick watches his ass. 

Patrick gathers up his clothes as Bob orders for them, dumping them in the hamper in his room and pulling on clean sweats. He can feel his mind sliding away from actually thinking about this, from looking at the situation head-on; he's already thinking about dinner, about calling McLynn back, about maybe showering with Bob later. The knowledge that this balance can't last forever, might not even last for the rest of the day before something splits it wide open, is there in the back of his mind as always. But he ignores it and goes to wait with Bob for dinner, putting off the inevitable for one more night.

***

2005 is almost over with only a month left, and it catches Patrick off-guard when he finds all of Pete's attention suddenly on him. Pete has always focused on Patrick, yes, but that focus has always been divided, turned largely on other girls and guys: Jeanae, Ryan, Morgan, Mikey, the new label. Pete is used to the guarantee of Patrick's presence, and therefore hasn't turned all of his attention to him since they first met. Patrick was too self-conscious at fifteen to really recognize the bizarre, frightening gift that is Pete Wentz being _that_ excited about you, so when Pete comes back around seven years later, it feels almost totally new.

Patrick wakes up in the middle of the night in his bunk, and when he pushes the curtain aside he sees Pete sitting indian-style on the floor. He's leaning against Joe's bunk, directly across from Patrick's, and Patrick immediately knows that Pete's been staring at him for hours.

If Pete is awake at three AM and wants to bug Patrick, he usually just climbs in with him. He doesn't say anything now to explain why he's just sitting there creepily, and there's an odd vulnerability on his face--an emotion that's just barely to the left of all the Pete moods Patrick can easily label and identify.

Patrick swallows. "Can't sleep? He asks the stupid obvious question, anything to break the thick, confused tension in front of him.

Pete just sighs, and keeps looking at him. "I wanted to talk to you, but I forgot what about." He says it flat, not bothering at all to conceal the fact that he's lying, and Patrick scowls. He's tired and unnerved, and it's strangely difficult to look Pete in the eye when he's like this.

"Whatever," Patrick says, pulling the curtain shut and lying down again, turning on his side away from where he knows Pete is sitting. He realizes that his heart is pounding, and he strains to hear sounds of Pete getting up, but falls asleep before he does.

When he wakes up again, it's morning and Pete is sitting on his bunk. He offers Patrick a bowl of cereal when Patrick sleepily slurs curses at him.

"Breakfast in bed?" Patrick says after accepting. "What are you buttering me up for?"

Pete shrugs, and then grins, and then shakes his head; Patrick sighs. "Pete. What?"

Pete points a finger at Patrick's chest. "I think you're great, dude. I really appreciate you."

Patrick is reminded of that period when Pete was 21, and his girlfriend told him he was cold and uncommunicative after she cheated on him; he spent two weeks after that telling everyone in his vicinity how much he loved and valued them every ten minutes. There's nothing Patrick can do in these situations, really, except wait out the storm.

"I appreciate you, too," Patrick says. "Are you going to serve me breakfast every morning on the tour?"

Pete licks his lips and ducks his head. "Maybe." He glances up again to meet Patrick's eyes, and it's such an abrupt transition from friendly to sexually flirtatious that Patrick flushes. Pete holds his gaze for a beat, two, before springing up off of Patrick's bunk and walking away.

It's not like Patrick has never thought about the possibility of him and Pete. Of fucking course he's thought about it--he spent most of his high school career thinking about it. He never stopped being attracted to Pete, and on some level, he never stopped being flattered that the most charismatic person he knows chose *him* for a best friend.

But that doesn't mean he's ignorant about what it would actually mean to be in a relationship with Pete. So he tries to ignore the signs as they come even faster and more obvious; he keeps as much of his personal space as possible, he works on not blushing when Pete hits him with his version of Smoldering, he avoids being alone with Pete whenever possible. But less than a week after Pete brings Patrick breakfast in bed, Pete grabs Patrick's elbow as they're both on their way to a party in the hotel.

"I need to talk to you," he says, and when Pete says _need_ he always sounds like he means it more literally than anyone else possibly could, like whatever he's asking for really is necessary to his survival. 

"Okay," Patrick hears himself say against his better judgment, and then Pete's dragging him back into the band's empty hotel suite, pushing the door closed behind him. 

Everything Pete probably wants to say is already showing naked on his face, and Patrick takes a step back. He feels panic rise in his chest, because he's not ready for this, not ready to actually have something he's been trying not to want for years. 

Pete licks his lips. "I, uh. Patrick." He shakes his head and looks down at his shoes, laughing a little. "Will you go out with me?"

The question is so--so incongruous, so wildly unfitting for all of the mess this is going to entail, that Patrick laughs. He guffaws and has to sit down on the edge of the bed, still huffing out laughter. Pete grins up at him from underneath his bangs, snickering a little himself, because of course he gets it, Pete gets everything.

"This is the worst idea you've ever had," Patrick points out.

"That is so not true," Pete says, indignant now. "You've seen all my bad ideas! This one won't end in charges of property damage or public indecency!"

"We can't," Patrick insists. "I love you, more than I do just about anyone, but this would be--"

"Amazing. Epic." Fuck, Pete _actually goes down on one knee._ "I want to. You want to, I *know* you want to. This is the kind of thing that's meant to happen."

"Don't bring your romantic streak into this," Patrick says, even though he has a sinking feeling he's already lost. 

"It's already been broughten," Pete says, inching closer on his knees. "Come on, give me one reason, just one good reason why not-"

"You tried to kill yourself nine months ago," Patrick says flatly. 

Pete stops and stares. Patrick stares back; it's _true,_ and it doesn't matter that Patrick has forgiven him, it's something that will always be true for Pete. 

"Okay," Pete says, slowly, like he's reasoning through something. "I'm not the sanest emo jerk ever, point. But that doesn't keep you from being my friend, so--so why does it matter for anything else?"

"It's not that specifically, it's--god, you're, okay." Patrick is losing coherency, and Pete is inching closer again, and fuck. "I care about you, I care about you so much, but I also know you, so I know how much you fuck things up for yourself, and I just--"

"Trust me," Pete says, and Patrick is actually surprised at how firm his voice is, how confident he sounds.

"Easy for you to say," Patrick says. "You didn't have to watch *your* best friend try to disappear this year."

"But I'm better. I am," Pete insists when Patrick snorts. "I mean, it's--you're not going to get it, dude, because you've always been okay. You have problems, sure, but you have no idea what it's like to distrust every thought in your own head. Like, I--"

Pete looks away, shaking his head a little, and Patrick waits for him to continue. "I know that I'm better now because I remember what the alternative is," he says eventually. "Sometimes you just--you have to fuck yourself up completely before you can be complete again."

Patrick crosses his arms. "That sounds like bullshit."

"Wow, you really haven't trusted me at all since that whole thing went down, have you?" Pete says, looking at Patrick again, surprised. "I knew that it made you mad, but I didn't, like." He presses his lips together and Patrick holds his stare, glaring a little.

"I'm the crazy one," Pete says, finally. "So I don't know why you're more scared of this than I am."

"I'm not *scared,*" Patrick snaps. "Maybe I just don't feel the way you do."

"Now what's bullshit?" Pete stands and sits next to him on the bed, and Patrick thinks about getting up and just leaving, but he doesn't. "Patrick. Hey. Look at me."

It's a dirty tactic; when Patrick does turn to look, Pete kisses him on the mouth, firm with one hand cupping Patrick's jaw. Patrick pushes him away, but not soon enough, and he can tell from the unabashedly smug look on Pete's face that he's just proved Pete right.

"Look at it this way: you stuck by me when I did the stupidest thing possible earlier this year, right? And we're still friends. So we can last through anything that happens with, you know, this." 

Pete covers Patrick's hand with his own on the bedspread. Patrick wants this, wants it as much as he did when he was sixteen, if in a different way. He's terrified. He squeezes Pete's fingers back and nods.

***

Suddenly it’s been a month and Patrick looks up to realize he doesn’t have much of a concept of what life was like before he was involved in this, in love. Or maybe there’s no “before”: maybe he’s always felt this way, and Pete just brought it to the surface when he decided he wanted to be Patrick’s boyfriend, because things don’t seem to have changed that much.

Or, well, they’ve changed—of course they’ve changed. For one thing, Patrick has a regular sex life now. And Pete has become an even bigger physical presence in his life, like he’s making it a personal challenge to see if he can have some part of himself touching Patrick at all times. What’s weirder is that Patrick doesn’t mind. Usually physical clinginess makes Patrick uncomfortable, no matter how much he likes the other person, but now it makes Patrick less nervous that this is just something fleeting.

Joe starts staring at them a week after they get together. He keeps trying to catch Patrick’s eye, and Patrick doesn’t know if Pete’s talked to Joe or not, or if and why this has become his job, but he pulls Joe aside before an interview with AP.

“So,” Patrick says. “I guess you’ve, um. Figured it out about me and Pete.”

Joe snorts. “Uh, you haven’t been trying to keep it secret, have you? Because, man.”

Patrick bites back a smile. “No, we haven’t. I guess Pete’s been pretty obvious.”

“He’s practically slobbering on your shoulder,” Joe says. “it’s kinda gross.”

Patrick can’t stop grinning this time, and he knows he looks like one half of a stupid-happy annoying new couple. “Yeah, well. Pete’s Pete.” 

“Hey, I’m happy for you,” Joe says. He shoves his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders a little, and Patrick waits for it. “But, I mean.” He makes a face. “You know I love Pete to death, yeah?”

“Of course,” Patrick says. He knows what’s coming, but he waits for Joe to spit it out.

Joe scratches at the back of his neck. “The dude’s kind of unstable,” he says haltingly. “I mean, I think he’s mostly over the punching-car-windows stage, but.” He looks Patrick in the eye, finally. “This band is the most important thing for all of us, right?” 

“The band comes before everything,” Patrick agrees. “And—yeah. Look, Joe, I know Pete as well as you, I know what he’s like, but.” He hesitates, because—well, because he had the same concerns as Joe. Still has them. 

“You’ve got to trust me,” he says. “Even if this is a train wreck, I swear I won’t let it fuck up the band.”

“It won’t be a train wreck,” Joe says, putting a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and grinning. “Whatever, you guys will probably be all epic and shit. There’ll be a lifetime movie based on your grand romance.”

“Okay, now you’re just being unnecessary.” Patrick laughs and shoves Joe away. “But really, you’re not like—weirded out by it or anything?”

Joe shrugs. “I’ve always been weirded out by the way Pete is about you. Now it’s just, like, all up in my face every day, that’s all. It’s cool, though.”

Patrick smiles. “Cool.”

When he gets Andy by himself, Andy waves him off before Patrick can open his mouth. “Pete already talked to me about it. Really though, it’s none of my business, you guys do whatever.”

“—oh,” Patrick says. “So—so you’re cool with it then?”

“Keep me and the band out of any shit you two have,” Andy says, pointing a finger menacingly at Patrick’s chest, but he’s smiling. “Other than that, yeah, sure. Doesn’t matter to me.”

"So it's real now," Pete says after hearing of Joe and Andy's reactions. They're in Pete's bunk; Patrick has been spending more time here than in his own, and today he finally grabbed his crap from his bunk and dumped it in Pete's. "We've told people, so it's real."

"You don't think a relationship is real until other people know about it?" Patrick says. "Wow, your internet ways make so much more sense to me now."

Pete grins. They're lying on their sides, facing each other. He has Patrick's hand in his, and he gestures with their clasped fingers as he talks. "No, I just mean. Like. Now you can't disappear or back out on me without other people asking questions. This makes it more definite."

Patrick knows Pete pretty well--he might go so far to say that he knows him better than anyone else not related to him by blood. So he's rarely surprised to hear Pete make statements that betray an extremely warped view of life, but he's never stopped being disturbed by it. 

"Dude. Are you a moron? What makes you think that I would just get bored with you if we didn't make our 'thing' all official?" Patrick is smiling as he says it, and he brings their hands up in between their chests, shaking Pete's arm a little.

Pete laughs a little, but he doesn't really look amused. "I didn't think that," he says. "I just--"

He doesn't finish the sentence, instead ducking his head and smiling. "I don't know, man. I just can't believe that I talked you into this."

"You didn't talk me into anything," Patrick says. "I mean, you did, but--" he scoots closer. "I wouldn't actually be doing this if I were just going along with the situation," he says. "You know that, right? I'm all invested and stuff."

Pete lifts his head and his grin is bright and sunny. “I guess I’m just still skeptical that I got this lucky,” he says, and hooks his ankle over Patrick’s leg. Pete leans in to kiss him, and it’s the end of the conversation.

Patrick supposes that they’re That Couple of the tour, judging from the reactions of everyone around them; the rest of the bands and techs with them catch on soon after Joe and Andy, and there are discreet thumbs-up signs and open grins at them. Patrick is pretty sure he’s getting talked about more than he ever has in his life.

Their shows are better than they’ve ever been before. Pete is amazingly animated onstage, laughing and grinning into the mic in every city and careening around the stage with Joe so much that Patrick is always amazed he has energy left over at the end of the night. Patrick gets into it, too, playing at Pete when he isn’t singing and moving around the stage more than he usually does. He even ends up on his knees in front of Pete once, in Cleveland, and after the show that night Pete drags him into the first unoccupied room they can find in the venue. They don’t even manage to get their clothes off, instead grinding against each other until they both get off, and Patrick feels breathless and ridiculous and happy.

At every show Pete touches him, leans on him, kisses his neck or his cheek or, in Boston, his lips. And Patrick knows that displaying it publically is Pete’s way of expressing how important this is in his life, and he feels both overwhelmed and guilty that he isn’t behaving similarly, that he doesn’t know how to express what Pete is to him.

He and Pete are curled up on the bus couch, en route to Providence for their last tour date when Pete's sidekick rings. Pete fishes it out of his pocket with the same little-kid excitement he always gets when his phone rings, and Patrick can see his face change when he sees who it is. He tosses it a few feet away from him and lets it ring, and Patrick feels like he has a sense for these things, sometimes: a Wentz sense for when Pete is hiding something or fucking something up. Or maybe Patrick just has an uncanny ability to bring the fucked up shit to the surface; something like that.

He nudges Pete's shoulder. "Who was that? They don't get to talk to you?"

Pete glances at him, and Patrick can see the moment when Pete considers lying and decides against it. "Nothing," he says. "Just my therapist."

Patrick frowns. "I'm not super familiar with the way that whole thing works, but isn't it kind of important for you to talk to her?"

Pete is looking down at his feet and picking at a loose thread at his knee. "Uh. No. I haven't talked to her in, um. Three weeks."

Patrick stares. 

"I haven't needed to," Pete says, defensive. "I've been happy, I've had you."

"You're avoiding her calls," Patrick says. Part of him is surprised that his voice is coming out so even and calm. His hand resting on the back of the couch curls into a fist. 

Pete looks away from him. "Whatever. It was a stupid arrangement anyway."

"Calls with her kept you together on tour after your hospital stint," Patrick says, and yes, there's his voice rising. "It's not stupid, it's fucking necessary, it's--man, what the fuck?"

Pete shrugs. "I'm still taking my pills and everything."

"Oh, _good._ Good, because if I'd known there was any chance that you might not be, I'd have you fucking put away!" Patrick's voice cuts off savagely, and Pete whips around to stare at him. 

"Dude. You don't mean that," Pete says.

"I--no, of course not," Patrick says, softer. "But the point is, you're just--fuck, okay, the point is I am not going to go through what I did last winter, okay? Especially not now, not with us." 

"Why the hell do you think I would ever do that again? I told you, I'm happy." Pete sounds genuinely baffled, and Patrick wants to smack him.

"Because avoiding calls from your therapist is fucked up, asshole," Patrick says. "When do you need to see a psychiatrist to get your meds checked?"

Pete scowls. "You don't need to badger me about the details. You're making a big deal about this one thing."

"Yeah, I hope I am," Patrick says. "Christ, Pete."

Patrick looks away, and he can feel Pete staring at him. Finally he sighs, and Patrick feels Pete's fingers at his elbow.

"You're gonna have to trust me a little," Pete says. "Trust me to take care of myself. Okay? I promise, this is a good sign, not a bad one."

Patrick wonders whether Pete's therapist would agree with that statement. He bites his lip. "If you say so." But he doesn't say anything else. He goes with it when Pete tugs at him, pulling Patrick back until he's sprawled on top of Pete on the couch, both of them looking up at the bus ceiling as the engine rumbles beneath them.

***

The Black Clouds and Underdogs tour has been just as much fun as Patrick hoped it would. Patrick is continually surprised by how much he likes The Hush Sound, really genuinely likes all of them, and it helps that they seem to think he’s the best human being on earth. He doesn’t even think of saying no when Greta nervously approaches him about producing their album, even though he has his hands plenty full with producing for Gym Class as well. He trusts both bands to give him plenty of interesting material to work with, and he's honestly excited about so much work, so many challenges. 

Even though he can’t get down to the real work on either album while on tour, figuring out his ideas keeps him plenty busy. And he’s more and more restless to get started on his own album with each day—he’s finally getting around to going through the pages and pages of lyrics Pete has shoved at him over the past few months, and he doesn’t really want to be doing anything but performing or working on garageband. Pete has his own hands full, what with the constant drama-fest that is Panic! At The Disco, the new clothing line, and more and more press focusing on Pete himself. It’s overwhelming and exciting and it means that mostly Patrick sees Pete either in bed next to him (when they’re usually too exhausted to do anything but pass out) or onstage. 

Pete walks in on Patrick working with Greta once. They’re going over some new lyrics, and Patrick is laughing as Greta pokes his sides. He’s not actually laughing because it tickles, but Greta’s determination to magically make him ticklish is hilarious. Greta just gets more indignant as Patrick slaps her hands away, and she finally sits back in a huff when Pete enters the room.

“What are you up too?” Pete says, and Patrick blinks. Pete’s voice is sharp and suspicious, and when Patrick turns to look at him, there’s a hooded look in Pete’s eyes.

“Lyrics,” Patrick says, gesturing at the sheaf of papers on the table. 

“I wasn’t violating him,” Greta says, smirking and rolling her eyes. “That was totally consensual tickling, he said I could try.”

Patrick snorts, but Pete still isn’t smiling. “Bob was looking for you,” he says to Greta, and she takes a hint, making a face at Patrick over Pete’s shoulder as she leaves.

Pete slides into Greta’s chair, and before Patrick can ask him what the hell his problem is, Pete says, “She’s been kind of all over you lately.”

Patrick stares. “Are you serious? Dude, she’s like. Barely out of high school. I don’t think you need to feel threatened.” He tries to laugh it off, but Pete still has that ugly look in his eyes, and Patrick’s laughter dies off.

“You’ve really hit it off with her. More so than with anyone else in that band.”

“Yeah, because she’s an insanely multi-talented musician and I’m producing her album,” Patrick says, his own voice getting sharper to match Pete’s. “Seriously. That’s it. You’re being crazy.”

Pete meets Patrick’s eyes, and the ugliness changes to uncertainty, and then he smiles a little. “Okay. If you say so.”

“Yeah, I do!” Patrick says. “Are you going to get like this every time I make a new friend?”

Pete cringes. “No, I—I’m sorry, it’s just—you know how I get.”

Patrick knows; sometimes he thinks he remembers the way Pete was with Jeanae better than Pete does. “Yeah, well. It’s not cool and it’s not cute, okay?”

“Okay.” Pete gives him a tight smile and reaches across the table to squeeze Patrick’s hand. Patrick is annoyed enough that he wants to take his hand back and leave, but Pete looks uncertain and humbled, like maybe Patrick actually got through to him. And he seems to bend over backwards to be nice to Greta afterwards, always showing enthusiasm about her band working with Patrick.

"I'm loving the new label, you know,," Patrick tells him sleepily when Pete throws himself into their bunk after a show. "Like." He tugs Pete back against him and wraps his hand around Pete's bicep, tapping his fingers against Pete's skin. "I really like finding these new bands, I like working with them, helping them and stuff."

Pete turns his head enough that Patrick can see his smile. "Happy Valentine's Day," he says. "I got you two bands."

Patrick laughs. "Beats chocolate and roses," he murmurs, smushing his face against Pete's shoulder. Pete reaches back clumsily and gets a hand on Patrick's hip, tugging his thigh up so that it's lying on top of Pete's legs. 

Pete seems to be able to sleep best when they're touching the most, folded up into each other. Patrick often wakes up in the middle of the night feeling claustrophobic and uncomfortable, needing more space, but he can usually fall asleep again if he listens to Pete's breathing and the motor of the bus engine, sounds intersecting to make a noise like a really big, strange animal purring. He always drifts off just as his mind is starting to find melodies and rhythms in the noise, and one of these days he thinks he really will write a song based off of it.

***

One night he wakes up and Pete isn't there. Which isn't strange, except that what wakes Patrick up is the banging noises from the bus lounge. Patrick stumbles out still mostly asleep, and finds Pete pacing around the lounge. He kicks the couch every time he passes it, which is mostly what's making the noise. He's also picking up random things around the lounge, a t-shirt, a CD, a DVD, and either putting them back down or tossing them. His hair is in his face. Patrick doesn't think he's slept at all.

Patrick tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes. "Hey. What are you doing?"

Pete doesn't even turn. "Can't sleep. You should go back to bed."

And, fuck. "Hey, come on--" Patrick grabs for Pete's arm as Pete passes him, and Pete jerks away. It's a motion that's violent and seems to come from nowhere, Pete suddenly vicious enough to throw himself back and shove Patrick forward at the same time, like something horrible would happen if Patrick actually touched Pete's skin.

Pete stares, and Patrick can see the whites around his pupils. Patrick breathes through his nose and doesn't look away and stays calm and remembers that he's been here before, that this isn't even all that bad, it's just Pete, just Pete. He waits for Pete to start talking.

"Sorry," Pete says, rubbing his hands over his face. He looks like he wants to still be moving around. "I just--I haven't been. Sleeping."

Patrick doesn't ask whether that's four-hours-a-night-for-a-few-days haven't been sleeping, or 2-hours-a-night-for-two-weeks haven't been sleeping. It doesn't fucking matter; the end result is still this. "So... so is this, then. Um. Is there anything I can do?" 

Pete laughs and looks away and his hands, Patrick notices, are curled into fists. "No. Go back to sleeping with Greta."

Patrick knows Pete well enough by now to realize when he's genuinely being crazy, and when he's just acting crazy to get a rise. He doesn't take the bait. "Right. Have you been taking all your pills?"

Pete looks back at him and glares. "Yeah."

Patrick doesn't know whether he's lying or not, and he doesn't want to ask about therapy because he knows what the answer will be. And he wants to fucking scream, he wants to grab Pete and shake him and ask him how and why it is so fucking hard for him to just take care of himself and be okay.

Pete is back to pacing. "I tried writing and it's all shit," he says, and Patrick notices pages scattered on the floor. Most of them are ripped at least in half, and it looks like most of a notebook suffered this fate. "Everything I do is shit."

"That's not true," Patrick says automatically, even though he knows that just countering his negative statements isn't helpful to Pete when he's like this. But truthfully, Patrick has never had the first fucking clue how to help Pete out in these moods, because it's nothing Patrick's ever experienced himself, nothing Patrick can come close to understanding. 

"Look, I don't know what you're worried about tonight," Patrick says. "But things will look better tomorrow, okay? It's just that you're exhausted and stressed. If you really can't sleep, you can at least come back to bed and I'll not-sleep with you."

Pete makes a frustrated, sobbing noise and collapses onto the couch. "No, fuck no," he says. "Things won't fucking look better, it'll be worse because every day is worse, every day that someone looks at me and doesn't have the first fucking clue and keeps expecting--fuck, fuck, one day it's just not going to work anymore." He puts his head in his hands, and then as fast as he slumped down he springs back up again, bouncing on his toes.

"I'm getting out of here," Pete says, pushing past Patrick too fast for Patrick to react, and for a second Patrick has wild thoughts about Pete throwing himself off the bus, but Pete just throws himself into the tiny bathroom.

And locks it just as Patrick gets there. "Fuck," Patrick says, pulling on the handle and rattling it. "Fuck, Pete! Pete, you asshole, don't you--come the fuck out!" He pounds on the door and he knows getting pissed off is the worst way to handle Pete, but _fuck_ this, seriously, it's 2am the night before a show and he's trying to persuade his boyfriend to come out of a tiny tour bus bathroom. 

Patrick kicks at the door. "Come out! Pete, seriously, I will break this fucking thing down--"

"Go away," he hears Pete say, muffled through the door, and Patrick yells and kicks the door again.

"Dude," Joe says behind Patrick, making Patrick jump. Joe looks tired, not fully awake yet, and worried. "Is he--did he lock himself in there?"

Patrick tries to calm himself down. "Yeah. Yeah, he--I guess he's been having insomnia again. I don't fucking know."

Joe frowns at the bathroom door. "Um, shit. Pete?" he says, raising his voice a little and knocking on the door. 

Patrick hears something rustle, but Pete doesn't say anything. Behind him, Andy is sitting up in his bunk and poking his head out the curtain.

"What's going on?" Andy says, frowning. "Why is he...?" Andy's question trails off; he seems to get that neither Patrick nor Joe can actually answer. The three of them trade stares, and Patrick feels his eyelids getting grainy. He's tired, they're all tired.

"Fuck off," Pete calls out at them from behind the door. "Just--just whatever, okay, go back to sleep, you assholes!" He shouts the last word, high and sharp, and Joe hisses in a breath.

"Don't be a dick," Joe says, loud enough to be heard through the door but not shouting. "Come out, okay? Whatever it is, we can talk about it." 

"No," Pete says. "No, I'm not--no."

Joe opens and shuts his mouth, and Patrick curses and slaps at the door again. He can hear Andy start to get up, and no, this isn't right, this isn't something for the band.

"You guys should get some sleep," he says to Joe and Andy. "I'll stay up with him, okay? I'll make sure he doesn't--whatever. But some of us should be well-rested for tomorrow, at least."

Joe looks like he kind of wants to protest, but nods. "Yeah, sure. You try and get some sleep, okay? And that goes for you, too, dickwad," he says through the door.

Pete doesn't reply, and Patrick slides down to sit on the floor with his back braced against the door. Joe pulls himself back into his bunk, and Andy gives Patrick a look that Patrick can't really read before letting his curtain fall shut.

Patrick rests his head against the door and turns so that his cheek is touching it, too. "I'm not gonna leave," he says, and he's not even sure if he's speaking loud enough for Pete to hear. "Whatever it is you think you're doing, it's not working."

He can hear Pete sit on the floor, too, and thinks that Pete's back is probably pressed against his, with the door separating them. He doesn't understand why Pete won't come out, but he imagines Pete sitting with his knees curled up to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, his cheek resting on one knee.

"Remember the first time we toured California?" Patrick says to the door. "I got so sunburned in Anaheim, man, it was so awful. You were all gloating because you just got a tan. And then you got that awful tattoo in San Jose..."

Patrick keeps talking, and Pete never replies, and eventually Patrick runs out of things to say. He makes himself more comfortable and stops stifling his yawns, and the next thing he knows the bathroom door is banging into his back and waking him up.

"Ow," Patrick mumbles, reaching back to rub the small of his back. 

"Um," Pete says. "You need to move so that I can, uh, get out."

Patrick wants to snap at him, wants to say _so NOW you want to come out?_ or something, but he just gets to his feet and stands back enough for Pete to walk out and close the bathroom door behind him.

Patrick stares. It's pretty obvious that Pete hasn't slept at all, and Patrick's chest twists and tightens. He leans forward and Pete leans back, and Patrick grabs the back of his head and kisses him anyway. He tries to make it gentle, careful, and Pete still doesn't kiss back; when Patrick pulls away, Pete is just looking at him with an exhausted expression.

"Are you okay?" What a stupid fucking question. Patrick wants to kick himself as soon as he says it, but the corner of Pete's mouth lifts in kind of a smile.

"A little, I guess," he says, and maybe that's the best Patrick can hope for. Patrick knows that in a few days, the answer will probably be 'yes'; this is a low point, but not a crash and burn. He hopes.

Pete walks past Patrick and crawls into their bunk, faces the wall and curls himself like the little spoon. Patrick climbs in after him, and Pete doesn't pull away when Patrick puts an arm loosely around him. Patrick can hear the rhythm of Pete's breathing, and he drifts off to sleep himself before he hears it change to signify Pete sleeping.

***

Everything happens so fast when the naked pictures leak. Pete’s ringing sidekick wakes them both up at 7am, and Pete answers it still mostly curled up around Patrick’s back. Then he says “What? Are you—shit,” and rolls out of bed, and Patrick, mostly asleep, doesn’t really process the tone of his voice. He just turns over in the bunk and passes back out, and doesn’t see Pete for the rest of the day. McLynn is the one who tells him, waking him up again with a call at nine.

“Wow,” Patrick says when McLynn finishes. “This is crazy. It’s really spread that fast?”

“Welcome to the internet,” McLynn says. “Look, do you know anything about how this happened? The more we know, the better we can dispel the rumors.”

If he’s asking Patrick, that means that Pete hasn’t told him anything. “Sorry, but I know as much as you do,” he says, and it’s mostly the truth. He has his guesses, but he still doesn’t have much of a clue why his boyfriend sent naked pictures of himself to someone who isn’t Patrick, and he’d kind of like to know.

He meets up with Joe and Andy later, and they also don’t know much, and don’t seem to believe Patrick when he says he doesn’t, either. “Come on,” Joe says. “I get that you don’t want to tell the rest of the world that weird games between you guys led to penis photos on the web, but you can tell us.”

“I told you, I had nothing to do with it,” Patrick snaps, and flushes when Joe and Andy trade a look. He knows he sounds jealous, suspicious, but it’s not that; he’s more upset by the pictures being such a surprise to him than he is by Pete’s dick being in them. 

Plus, Pete gets jealous over anyone who looks at Patrick twice, but then apparently sends pictures of himself jerking off to—to whomever the hell he sent them too. The hypocrisy of it is frustrating, but Patrick doesn’t have much time to dwell on it. He’s too busy avoiding the press and dealing with meetings with the label and calls from his family and friends, and he needs to see Pete, Pete’s got to need him right now, Patrick should be next to him for this.

But Patrick doesn’t get to talk to Pete about it until they’re both back at the hotel room that night. Pete gets home later than Patrick and just flops down next to him on the bed, hugging Patrick tight. “I’m one of *those* celebrities now,” he mumbles into Patrick’s shoulder. “One of the trashy ones.”

“Whatever,” Patrick says, rubbing his hand up and down Pete’s back. “They’re just incriminating photos, those are a dime a dozen these days. People will get over it.”

“Yeah, right.” Pete rolls over onto his back and digs his palms into his eye sockets. “This is going to make things super weird for the band. Sorry in advance.”

Patrick shrugs. “I think we all knew we’d be in for an interesting time when we signed on for this,” he says, letting his hand settle on Pete’s chest. “You know we’re all here for you.”

Pete takes Patrick’s hand and squeezes it. “Thanks. It’s just—god, it’s just fucking weird.”

“I’ll bet. Do you, um. Any guesses on who leaked them?” Patrick tries to keep his voice casual, not accusing, not prying.

Pete’s gaze slides away, looking over Patrick’s shoulder instead of meeting his eyes. “Guesses, sure, but I don’t know anything for sure.”

Patrick bites his lip. He doesn’t want to get on Pete’s case about this, not when the rest of the world already is, but. “Okay. Who did you send them to? And—dude, why?”

“It wasn’t anything,” Pete says quickly. “They were just stupid pictures, I wasn’t trying to—I’m sorry.”

Patrick touches Pete’s chin, turns his head to face him. “I do trust you,” he says. “But this whole thing is kind of blowing up, and—can you just tell me what the deal is?”

“You shouldn’t worry about it,” Pete says. “I’ll take the heat, I’ll deal with this.”

“I deserve to know,” Patrick says, letting his voice get a little sharp. “Pete. Come on.”

Pete stares at him for two beats, stubborn, before he sighs and glances away again. “I sent them to Chris’s girlfriend,” he says. “She’s been sending me dirty messages for a couple weeks—“

“—and you thought responding was a _good idea?_ "

“No! No, I never sent anything back before, but Chris found all this stuff on her phone the other day. So, you know, he blows up at me, and I just. I don’t know. I was pissed off, I wanted to get him back, so I sent those pictures to his girl.”

“Wow, that’s retarded logic,” Patrick says, cuffing the back of Pete’s head. It’s not really a believable story, except for this is Pete, and this is genuinely how Pete’s mind works. “Way to burn that bridge down to the ground.”

“Whatever, I don’t care about that. I just wish I hadn’t, uh, exposed myself to so many people.” He pushes up on one elbow to look down at Patrick. “I really am sorry. I swear, it didn’t have anything to do with any kind of—I mean, I’ve never had anything to do with her, I was just *dumb.*”

“It’s okay.” Patrick puts his fingers on Pete’s lips, shushing him. “As long as I’m the only one who gets to touch your dick, I don’t care who sees it.” 

“You’d have to take it up with the world wide web if you did,” Pete says, lying back down on Patrick. “Oh my god, _so many people have seen my penis._ ”

“There, there.” Patrick pets Pete’s hair. “It could be worse. It wasn’t a sex tape or anything.”

Pete snorts. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”

Pete handles the publicity from the leaked photos both well and badly. Patrick can't help but be impressed at the way he injects humor into the situation and uses it as damn good promo material for the band and Clandestine. It's not surprising, really, when Patrick thinks about it--Pete's always eaten up attention, especially the grossest kinds, and he's always been sharp in this particular way, always been able to turn this kind of shit into gold.

But Patrick watches as the divide between Pete in public and in private grows and intensifies. Pete's always been able to turn on various personas, but now he flashes grins for MTV and wears Team Naked Pix t-shirts, only to become withdrawn when it's just the two of them. Most nights he tosses and turns next to Patrick until Patrick has to snap at him, and Pete snaps back and they either fight, or Pete just leaves. Patrick can see the complex pressures and criticisms getting to him--getting to all of them, really. None of them expected Pete's fame to explode in this particular way, to become something outside the band. Patrick knows how to write music and produce and sing, but he doesn't know how to navigate this, and there are plenty of days when he thinks Pete's as clueless as he is.

 

 

On their six-month anniversary, Pete picks a fight with him that results in them sleeping in different bedrooms for three days. Patrick doesn't even realize it was their anniversary until he's staring at a calendar and the dates click into place. He wonders if Pete was pissed that Patrick forgot, but didn't want to come out and say it, and hence the fight. 

The idea of that kind of passive aggression bothers Patrick enough that he breaks their radio silence to confront Pete about it. But Pete looks as surprised as Patrick when Patrick asks him about the date, so no, it wasn't that. Although they don't make up exactly, they end up in the same bed again that night. That's how their fights seem to go these days: Pete taking everything out on Patrick because he knows he can, Patrick losing patience, and the two of them falling back together when they get tired of being apart. It makes the time go by even faster, and when Patrick blinks spring has turned into summer, and Pete is buying a house in L.A.

A house that, apparently, is also for Patrick. "Dude, you'll fuckin' love it, I'd show you pictures but they don't even do it justice," Pete babbles at him, bouncing on his toes when he drops the news. "It's perfect for us."

Never mind that Patrick bought a house in Chicago a month ago; never mind that Patrick has never had any real desire to live in L.A. They fight about it of course, and it's not that Pete wants Patrick to move in with him in L.A. for good--they're touring most of the year, every year, anyway--it's just the principle of the thing, and when Patrick realizes he doesn't know what that principle even is, he gives up. They're going out to LA to record this album, anyway, so it sort of makes sense. Patrick is nervous as hell about the whole thing, but he can't quite figure out how to tell Pete that he's going to be recording, he's going to be _absorbed_ in recording--he'd really rather just live by himself. 

LA is hot when he arrives, and he can tell that it's on the cusp of getting blistering, even though it's still just June. Patrick's shirt is almost soaked through by the time the cab drops him off at Pete's place, and the first thing Pete does is pull Patrick into the bedroom. Patrick can feel how excited Pete is about this house while they fuck, the anticipation and triumph radiating off his skin. To Patrick, mostly it just feels new. 

***

"You have to let me hear it," Pete says, putting his chin on Patrick's shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around Patrick's waist. "You have to, come on. You can't just, like, hide yourself away all fucking day and refuse sex in order to be a freakish workaholic and then not _show_ me."

Patrick laughs and half-heartedly tries to pry Pete off him. "I just think we should wait until we're all in the studio tomorrow. Let's go out and do something, come on."

"You have the start of a groundbreaking, platinum album in your hands and you refuse to show me," Pete says dramatically, blowing a raspberry on Patrick's neck when Patrick tries to move forward. "That is the deepest betrayal."

"I don't have--man, what if you don't like it?" Patrick says, but he's laughing. "And I haven't fine-tuned anything yet, it's all just rough ideas."

"You've slaved away over these demos for the last two days and you seriously think I won't like it? Paaaatrick."

"No whining," Patrick says, reaching over his shoulder to cuff Pete lightly on the head. His hand gets mostly just hair. "Any more whining and no blowjobs for you."

"I'll trade blowjobs for getting to hear your shit," Pete says, fast enough that it startles Patrick and makes him question his talents at giving head. "Seriously, like, you don't even need to show me the whole thing, just give me a sneak preview before showing the guys tomorrow! Please? Pretty please?"

Patrick hesitates. He had really wanted to keep the record out of their home life when he agreed to move in, and he still thinks that's the best idea, but he also knows that even if he gets Pete to give up now, Pete will be nagging him the next time he knows Patrick is working on something for the album. It's a battle he's already lost.

"Fine," he says eventually, and Pete whoops and buries his face in the crook of Patrick's neck, and then tries to kiss him, only Pete's still behind him so he mostly gets Patrick's nose and cheek.

Pete bounces slightly sitting next to him as Patrick pulls up garage band on his laptop, but he stills when Patrick plays what he has. He doesn't say anything as Patrick plays every sample and demo he's made in the past week, and when Patrick finishes and looks over, Pete's head is tilted to the side and there's a faint line between his eyebrows.

"Well?" Patrick says. "Does it live up to the crazed amounts of hype you had in your freaky little head?"

Pete glances at Patrick and then quickly away, giving a short burst of laughter. "Yeah, I mean, damn, it's good, it's great. You're amazing, man."

Pete doesn't like it. Patrick feels himself sag with disappointment, because fuck, he knows he's stretching the boundaries with these demos, but somehow it hadn't occurred to him that Pete wouldn't be on the same page. "And...?"

Pete meets his eyes again, cringing a bit. "It just--they don't really sound like Fall Out Boy songs."

"That can be a good thing. People expect bands to grow with new material, Pete." Patrick's lips are pressed into a thin line, and he can already feel his temper flaring up. 

"No, I know," Pete says. "I agree, but--but I mean, don't you think that this sound is a little off with the lyrics?"

"We can work on that, the lyrics aren't set in stone," Patrick says, and Pete frowns a little. "Uh, neither is the music, obviously," he adds hurriedly when Pete scowls.

"I hope it isn't. No offense, man, but this is a straight-up funk beat. It's a *good* funk beat, but--"

"So you just want to make something that's cookie-cutter and boring and exactly what people expect?" Patrick snaps. "I thought we agreed we wanted to branch out from Cork Tree."

"We do," Pete says. "But this is you and, like, _Prince,_ it's not our band. And it doesn't work with the words."

"God, try to see beyond that for a fucking second!"

"You're not even acknowledging that it's a conflict!" Pete says, voice rising to meet Patrick's. "It sounds like an unintentional mash-up, man, they just don't go together!"

"I'm trying to develop something new, it's not my fault that the lyrics are stale," Patrick snaps, and immediately regrets it.

Pete's eyebrows go up and his jaw drops. "Sorry I haven't grown enough as a fucking _artist_ for you," he says, standing with his fists at his sides.

"That--that came out wrong," Patrick tries, but Pete is already stalking out the front door, letting it slam behind him. 

Patrick sits for a couple moments, then reaches out and carefully shuts his laptop. He twists around and punches the couch hard, several times before letting out a frustrated yell and flopping back down. 

He needs to get out of this fucking house. He's out the door by the time he remembers the text message from earlier today, one that he'd ignored because he was working. My Chemical Romance are apparently in town, Frank apparently still has his number, and meeting him and his girlfriend and Bob for dinner beats driving around L.A. by himself while fuming about Pete.

It's a vegan place in Hollywood, and when Patrick enters he sees Frank jump up out of his seat and start waving manically as Bob rubs his palm over his face and Jamia giggles. Frank laughs, too, and makes his way over to them.

"Where's Pete?" is the first thing Frank says. "According to Mikey you guys're all joined at the hip and shit."

"Yeah, I was counting on being the fifth wheel. Way to let me down," Bob says, flat enough that Patrick laughs even though the mention of Pete makes his gut twist up.

"He's off in some meeting for the label," Patrick says. "I'm a free man tonight."

"Exciting," Frank says. "Dude, you have to try the steak portabello here, it will make you see God."

Chatting with them is fun. Patrick hasn't kept in touch with this band the way Pete's kept in touch with Mikey, but there've been emails and the occasional phone call, and he's excited that they're in the same place at the same time again. It makes LA feel less alien, makes it feel just a little bit like Warped. 

When Patrick asks how their recording is going, Frank puts his fork down, Jamia makes a face and pushes her hair behind her ears, and Bob frowns into his salad. 

“It’s going okay,” Frank says. “There are always, you know, bumps in the road. And stuff.”

“It’s gonna go better now,” Bob adds, staring at Frank. “We just had to figure some issues out, that’s all.”

Patrick wishes he hadn’t asked. They both suck at covering up for whatever it is they’re trying to cover, and Patrick feels like he intruded on something private.

Jamia looks between them and then looks at Patrick. “There’s just been some drama-rama,” she says. “Because these boys have lived in vans for three years and don’t know how to be actual human beings.”

Patrick laughs, and Frank digs an elbow into Jamia’s side, making her yelp. The tension is broken, but there’s still an uncharacteristic tightness around Frank’s mouth. When Patrick meets Bob’s eyes, Bob lifts an eyebrow and quirks his lips, a silent acknowledgement that yeah, things are a little weird.

“There’s always drama when you’re in studio,” Patrick says lightly. “I’m sure Fall Out Boy is in for some of its own.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, perking up. “How’s your record going, anyway?”

Patrick doesn’t know if it’s just because he feels awkward after seeing that weird display of My Chemical Romance’s vulnerability, but he spills. “Frustrating already. Pete is—“ he stops and takes a bite to shut himself up.

He wipes his mouth; the other three are still looking at him expectantly. “There’s friction, you know?”

“Lovers spats or music spats?” Frank says, then “Ow!” when Bob kicks him, obviously, under the table.

Patrick smiles, because somehow he can’t mind the nosiness, coming from Frank. “Neither? Or both, I don’t know. Mostly, I just really think I need to not be living in the same house with my main collaborator.”

And he hadn’t realized he thought that until he said it, but wow, yeah, it’s totally true. Living with Pete in his big new house in L.A. is totally different from living with him in vans and buses, and the fight today only increased concerns that Patrick had already had about this album. He doesn’t want to negotiate writing songs for Pete’s lyrics while living with him.

Frank and Bob look at each other again, and Patrick feels that weird shadow of uneasiness come back. “Yeah,” Frank says. “Yeah, it can be not such a great idea to live with your band while you’re trying to make an album together.”

Patrick doesn’t really know what to say to that. He shrugs and goes back to his sandwich, and then Frank nudges him.

“Do you have any other place to stay aside from Pete’s house?” Frank’s speaking to Patrick, but waggling his eyebrows at Bob, and he yelps when Bob kicks him again.

“Uh, I’m kind of a rock star, I’m sure I can manage to get myself an apartment somewhere,” Patrick says, but Frank is already going on.

“You should live with Bob. You should *totally* live with Bob,” Frank says, ducking to avoid a swat from Bob. “He just moved into this new place and it’s huuuuge, and it would be perfect if you guys were roomies, it’d be like our bands are married or something!”

“No, sweetie, it really wouldn’t be,” Jamia says laughing, but Frank is sitting up and beaming around at all of them like he’s just solved world peace or something.

“Um, that’s okay, I wouldn’t want to invade Bob’s space like that,” Patrick says, while Bob says “Why the hell would he want to live with me when he can choose any ritzy place in L.A.?” to Frank.

“He’d want to live with you because it would be awesome! Don’t you think it would be awesome, Patrick?” Frank demands.

“Uh,” Patrick says through laughter, and Bob buries his face in his hands, and Jamia says “You *have* been complaining about how it’s more space than you need,” and Patrick knows they’re fucked: he could maybe defend himself against just Frank, but not against the two of them.

“It’s settled, then,” Frank says, and Bob actually growls.

“You are such a little asshole,” he says. “I’m not going to make someone live with me against their will just because you’re feeling like a real estate matchmaker—“

“It’s not against my will, I’d be cool with it,” Patrick says quickly, mostly to be polite but—but actually, yeah, he would be cool with it. “I just don’t want to, uh, foist myself on you, that’s all.”

Bob looks at him in surprise. “I really was going to look for a roommate. It’s too much space for just me,” he says slowly, and Frank crows in victory.

The more Patrick thinks about it, the more he likes the idea, and he can tell that Bob is pleased as well. He has a small smile on his face for the rest of the dinner, and every time Patrick meets Bob’s eyes they grin at each other. For the first time, Patrick feels optimistic about the summer beyond just the new album; he feels like he could actually have some fun.

***

It’s pretty shitty of him, probably, to be excited about moving in with a cool friend for the summer, considering that he’s moving out of his boyfriend’s house to do it. He feels too relieved to be guilty, but he does feel guilty about not feeling guilty, and the guilt increases and twists in his stomach once he says goodbye to Frank, Jamia and Bob (Bob says he can start moving his stuff in tomorrow if he wants; the futon is ready to go) and starts driving back to Pete’s house.

He takes the long way back, circling around blocks and stopping at yellow lights until he can’t put it off any longer, and pulls in to Pete’s driveway. It’s still weird for him to think of Pete living here, in this giant house with a pool and a locked gate and a tight security system. Patrick’s house in Chicago is similar, but this is in L.A., and—and things have changed for them, that’s all.

The house is totally dark when Patrick lets himself in, but Pete is sitting on the couch in the living room, and he stands as soon as he sees Patrick.

“Where the hell have you been?” he says in a ragged voice. 

“I just went out to dinner with friends,” he says, crossing the room to Pete. "Look, I'm really sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean what I said, at *all,* I was just pissed off.”

“I thought you were gone for good,” Pete says, taking a step towards Patrick. “I thought you had just fucking—left me, moved out. It’s fucking midnight, man, you couldn’t have called or texted me or—do you know what it’s *felt* like, the past few hours?”

"Oh, geez. I'm sorry, Pete, I wouldn't do that, I wouldn't just walk out on you." _You are going to be so furious when I tell you what I decided tonight._ “I didn't know you'd be that worried and I didn't know I'd be out so late." 

Pete lets out a little strangled sound, and it’s still too dark for Patrick to see the look on his face. But he steps into Patrick’s space and cups Patrick’s jaw, pulling him in for a kiss, and it’s hot and sweet and bruising and Patrick pulls Pete in closer.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Pete whispers, a desperate edge to his voice. “Or we could just—do it on the couch, come on—“

He’s already dragging Patrick towards the couch, kissing down his lips and jaw and neck, and Patrick wants to; he wants to leave what he has to say until morning, he wants makeup sex, he wants to fall asleep with Pete in his arms.

They fall onto the cushions and Pete buries his face in Patrick’s shoulder, mouthing at the skin there and tugging Patrick’s jacket off. His hands move over Patrick’s chest and torso like they’re pushing for something, demanding and searching, and Patrick grasps his wrists and holds him off and back.

“I need,” he says, panting, and swallows. “I need to talk to you about something, actually.”

“Tell me later,” Pete says, squirming closer to Patrick, and Patrick puts a hand on Pete’s knee.

“No,” he says. “No, I—the thing is, Pete, um. I am moving out.”

Pete goes completely still, and Patrick cringes. He could possibly look like more of an asshole right now if he really tried, but it’s unlikely. Pete yanks his wrist out of Patrick’s hand.

“What?” he says. “What do you mean, you’re…”

And Patrick feels the twist of guilt again, because the childlike confusion is much, much worse than Pete raging at him. 

“I’m not leaving *us,*” Patrick says. “I just think that it would be best if I didn’t live here while we’re recording.”

“I can’t believe this,” Pete says, pushing himself further away from Patrick. “You’re ready to bail after one fight?”

As if that was the first fight they’ve had since they got together, as if that was the first fight they’ve had this _week._ “No! No, jesus, I’m not bailing, I don’t want a break-up, I just. I just need to live somewhere else for a few months, just while we’re recording.”

“Bullshit,” Pete snarls. “Oh, right, it’s got everything to do with the fucking album and nothing to do with you being sick of me—“

“Fuck, Pete, how could you even—I’m not sick of you!” Patrick splutters. “That’s not how I feel, that’s not what this is about!”

“Oh, don’t try to pretend,” Pete says, sneering at him now and standing up. “You’ve been avoiding me, you’ve been totally distant—“

‘I’m working on _three albums._ ”

“—you never want to be around me outside the studio or here, and you’re irritated by me all the time!” Pete finishes and glares, crossing his arms over his chest.

Not for the first time, Patrick wishes that he didn’t have a boyfriend who started fights like it was a competitive sport. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says, eventually. “I disagree with your notion that I hate you or something. I think that’s a faulty conclusion.”

Pete glares at him for a little longer, and then his shoulder slump. He crosses the living room with his back to Patrick, looking out the window at his driveway.

“This is stupid,” he says. “I don’t see why—I mean, fuck, we’ve been living together in a bus for like three years.”

“That’s way different from moving in together,” Patrick says. “I really—I don’t feel like one means we’re ready for the other.”

“We’ve shared an apartment before!”

“Yeah, with Joe when I was _nineteen._ And anyway, dude, I’m serious about this getting in the way of the album. Today’s not gonna be the first time we clash over studio stuff, and I don’t want it to get in the way of, you know, us.”

“What can I do to change your mind?” Pete says, turning back around to face him. “We can sleep in different bedrooms, we can have that rule about no studio crap in the house—“

“My mind’s made up,” Patrick says, and feels like an asshole. “I’m serious, Pete. I think this is for the best, just while we’re recording.”

Pete rocks back on his heels. “Fine,” he snaps. “Fine, but if you’re moving out you can fucking sleep in the guest room tonight.” He leaves the room, and Patrick’s exhaustion hits him all at once. He wants to just pass out where he’s sitting, doesn’t even want to make the effort to get to the guest room, but he drags himself upstairs and faceplants onto the bed, falling asleep immediately.

***

Pete is still grumpy the next day, but when Patrick hesitantly asks if he understands where Patrick is coming from, Pete reluctantly says he does. It's not okay yet, not exactly, but Pete does help him move his stuff into Bob's place. He's standoffish to Bob and he kisses Patrick slow and lewd in the doorway when he has to leave for an interview.

"See you tomorrow, in the studio," Pete says pointedly, glancing at Bob, and Patrick smiles and hugs Pete a little bit.

"Of course," he says. "Love you." 

"You too," Pete says, squeezing Patrick's hand and then going. 

Patrick turns to Bob, who is eating potato chips and has a mild, somewhat amused look on his face. “He still mad?”

Patrick scratches at the back of his neck. "A little. I'm mostly out of the doghouse, though."

Bob finishes his chips and crumples the bag. “Sorry.”

Patrick shrugs. “He said he understood. We just both need to be focused on work right now.”

Bob nods and smiles, and Patrick is struck by how different he looks from last year. It’s not the longer hair and the lost weight, not exactly, he just—he seems different. Maybe it’s the difference between being in a band for two years vs ten months; maybe it’s that they’re not on Warped; maybe it’s because he’s here in his own space, and Patrick’s not just seeing him in the context of the band. 

Whatever the reason, Patrick finds that he’s staring. He shakes his head and looks away, and Bob says, “Speaking of work, sorry, but I’m bailing on helping you unpack—gotta head back to the studio for a bit. Rob’s cracking the whip.”

After he moves in, Patrick doesn’t see Bob for three days. Patrick is asleep by the time Bob gets back from the studio, and in the morning Patrick has an early meeting with Disashi to discuss the guitar bridge for Shoot Down The Stars, and he doesn’t see Bob before he has to rush out. Their schedules seem to overlap like that constantly, both of them busy with the boring, exhausting parts of being a rock star. It’s kind of a bummer, but time flies by too fast for Patrick to even really notice.

On Thursday night, around 3am, Patrick blinks awake to the muffled sound of voices and the front door closing. He sits up on his futon and, through the space where his door is open, he can see Bob and Ray. Bob has a hand on Ray’s shoulder and Ray is shaking his head.

“—just have to be patient with them, you know?” Patrick hears Bob say, and Ray snorts loudly before their voices drop back down to whispers. Patrick lies back down and tries to go back to sleep again, but shortly after he hears the front door close again, and when he sits up to look Bob is sitting alone on the couch. Bob is rubbing his hands over his face and his shoulders are slumped, and Patrick feels suddenly awkward and nervous. He has an urge to go out there and ask if anything’s wrong, or how Bob’s doing, or.

Patrick lies back down and rolls on his side so he can’t see the living room at all. He’s not going to be presumptuous; Bob is probably as stressed as Patrick is about recording, that’s all.

Patrick leaves the studio with Pete the next night. In the parking lot, Pete takes Patrick's hand and swings their arms back and forth. It makes Patrick think of elementary school, especially with Pete's big silly grin, and he laughs and bumps their shoulders together. 

"Thank god it's Friday, hey. Freedom, right?" Pete says, squeezing Patrick's hand, and Patrick nods emphatically, even though recording an album isn't like a 9-5 job--the weekend is somewhat meaningless. But this weekend in particular is looking pretty blank, actually, like it has the potential to be relaxing.

"Let's hit up some kind of disgusting drive-through fast food on the way to your house, I'm starving." And then there's tonight, of course; Patrick is already thinking about making out with Pete in the entranceway of the huge house, maybe removing articles of clothing as they make their way upstairs to the bedroom, then taking things slow on the actual bed, taking his time with it.

"Actually," Pete says, facing Patrick with a smile that seems strange because his mouth is closed--it's not his big grin, it's not dorky, instead it's a look of intent. "I was thinking we'd head to your place."

"Really?" Patrick can't keep the surprise out of his voice, because the idea hadn't even occurred to him--he's been using the apartment as a place to crash and occasionally eat or play video games with Bob or do work on the album. He hasn't been *living* there, not really. "Sure, but--I mean, I have a futon on the floor, your place would be nicer."

"I've only seen your apartment for, like, ten minutes at a time," Pete says. "I want to spend the night there." Patrick can hear the barely unstated 'I want to fuck you there,' and it's one of those things that he might find exasperating on another day, but right now it starts a spark of arousal in his gut. 

"Sure," Patrick says. "Let's just skip the food, then."

Pete doesn't touch Patrick as Patrick lets them into the building and they take the elevator up. He just stands with his hands in his pockets, wearing his usual dorky grin now and looking at Patrick like Patrick is the coolest toy ever. Patrick grins back, and for the time it takes for them to get from the first to the fourth floor, the world feels still and quiet. It feels like this is all there is, the two of them smiling at each other, and it's enough.

And then the floor dings, and Pete follows close behind Patrick to the door, well into his personal space. Patrick leans back against him briefly when he turns the key in the lock, and Bob isn't home, and as soon as the door is shut behind them Pete slips his hand around Patrick's waist and presses his face against Patrick's neck, breathing against his jaw. 

It hits Patrick sometimes, that things weren't always _like_ this with them--that in fact, for the vast majority of the time he's known Pete, they haven't had this kind of sexual, physical relationship. When Patrick looks back he can see that there'd been sexual tension, sure, but this ability he has now to turn his head and kiss Pete with this kind of intent, that's still relatively new. It doesn't seem that way at all, though; it seems like the most natural thing in the world, and already Patrick can't picture being around Pete and not having it. 

"Mm," Patrick says when Pete pushes Patrick up against the wall, already undoing Patrick's belt. "My room--seriously, my room, I don't want Bob to come home to-- aah," he stutters out when Pete runs his tongue over his collarbone and then up his neck, fast and then slow. 

"Never any fun, Stump," Pete says in between pecks to Patrick's mouth. "Fine, fine, lead the way."

Patrick tugs them into his room and they end up making out while kneeling on the futon. Pete has pushed Patrick's t-shirt up to his armpits and Patrick has one hand shoved down the back of Pete's pants to grope his ass. Patrick has always loved this stage, when you haven't gotten to the sex yet because you're so nuts with desire that you can't stop touching the other person long enough to get clothes off. Pete's the one who breaks first, swearing and breaking the kisses to tug Patrick's shirt off of him and then undoing his own fly, pushing his pants down.

"Finally," Pete says when they're both naked, breathless as he pulls Patrick down on top of him. "I haven't touched your dick in, like, days."

"So crazy," Patrick says, smirking. But it really kind of *is* nuts that they go so long without sex these days, when it always feels like on tour, they have their hands in each other's pants for 90% of their waking hours. What's weirder, Patrick thinks a little guiltily, is that the lack of that now hasn't really bothered him: he's been way too preoccupied with the album, with making music. 

But he's not preoccupied now, and he still loves the noises Pete makes when Patrick makes his way down his body, biting at Pete's nipples, licking a line over his belly button, kissing *that* tattoo. And Pete always manages to somehow sound surprised at this part, letting out a soft "oh" when Patrick handles his cock and licks the tip. 

Patrick grins up at him and Pete just pants, his hand coming up to rest lightly on Patrick's neck and shoulder. Pete groans loud when Patrick goes down, and Patrick works with the motion of his hips, closes his eyes and lets his head bob. 

Patrick doesn't suck him until he comes. He pulls off, saying, "God, okay, I want to fuck you now. Or, do you want--?"

But Pete is already shaking his head. "No, yeah, that works, you can fuck me," he says dazedly, already turning over onto his stomach. Patrick sits up, kneels and takes a moment to appreciate the view, the arch of Pete's spine and the spread of his thighs. He fishes around in the pile of miscellaneous crap by his bed until he finds the lotion, and Pete lets out a long sigh and pushes back against him when Patrick pushes a slicked-up finger in. 

"Now," Pete says, shortly after Patrick adds a second finger, and Patrick snorts at the bossiness of it. 

"Yeah," he says, taking his fingers out and slicking himself up. "Yeah, oh, Pete," and it's so good when he guides himself in, so good when Pete arches up into it, so good when Patrick grabs Pete's hand and holds it down against the sheets. 

After the first two thrusts, Pete says, "Fuck, okay, can we--let me up for a second?" Patrick leans up off him and Pete gets on his hands and knees. "Try now," Pete says, craning his neck to speak over his shoulder, and Patrick takes Pete's hips in both hands and thrusts back in, slower this time.

"Better?" he asks, and Pete nods. Patrick shifts until he's got the leverage right on his end, and then they fall into a rhythm. It's slow, it doesn't speed up until after Pete comes, until Patrick is close himself, grunting and fucking him fast and hard enough that he can hear his balls slap against Pete's ass. 

"I'm, oh god," Patrick gasps out right before the orgasm hits. He's still holding Pete by the hips, clinging to him like a lifeline, and his grip doesn't loosen till he starts to come down.

Patrick pulls out and flops down next to Pete, face first on the bed. "I want to do that in the studio," he blurts out, and if his face weren't already bright red from the orgasm, he'd be blushing now. He hadn't thought about that, really, until the words just came out.

Pete bursts out laughing. "You and your one-track-mind," he says. "Someday you're going to figure out how to have sex with your GarageBand and you'll have absolutely no use for me anymore."

"Give me some credit, I would include you in that threesome," Patrick shoots back, and Pete giggles and throws an arm around Patrick's back, pulling him closer.

Patrick wakes up in the middle of the night. He extracts himself from Pete's arms, and even still more asleep than awake, it makes him smile to see Pete so unconscious, dead to the world. 

Patrick stumbles out of his room, towards the bathroom, and almost collides with Bob. Bob's coming from the kitchen, a mug of tea in his hands, and Patrick wonders idly if Bob has yet to go to sleep, or was asleep and is now awake, like Patrick.

"'scuse me," Patrick mutters, and Bob laughs a little.

"You just had to bring him here, huh?" Bob says, and Patrick can tell that it's the classic 'My roommate had sex tonight only a few walls away from me, and I have to joke about how grossed out I am to take away both our embarrassment.' And maybe it's just Patrick not being quite awake, but it seems like there's an undercurrent of something else, the edge of something rougher in Bob's voice.

And Patrick finds himself saying, "Yeah, I did," answering seriously as if Bob had actually been asking a question. Bob blinks at him and Patrick feels uncomfortable, his skin prickling slightly. 

The moment passes; Bob shakes his head and sips his tea. "Just keep it down then, I guess," he says, and Patrick goes back to feeling groggy and needing to pee, the discomfort gone.

"Heh. We'll be considerate," Patrick says, smiling at Bob before moving around him to the bathroom. When he gets back into bed next to Pete, pulling the sheets back over them both, he's almost certain that he just imagined whatever strangeness there might've been, and it's easy to drift back to sleep. 

When Patrick gets up in the morning, Pete is still fast asleep, and Patrick's movements getting out of bed don't wake him up. Bob is on the couch in his boxers, eating Trix and watching cartoons. Patrick gets a bowl for himself and joins him.

“On tour, we catch Saturday cartoons if it’s at all humanly possible,” Bob says during the first commercial break. “Gerard gets emotional about them, man. He’s cried at some of the X-men re-runs.”

“Really?” Bob’s cereal is mostly gone, with only a few purple and red pieces floating in multicolored milk in his bowl. “I don’t remember that cartoon as being particularly grim.”

“The Wolverine storylines, the ones about his lost memories and shit? Those were fucking tragic,” Bob says, and Patrick grins.

Pete walks into the room at a commercial break, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. He gives Patrick a sleepy smile and says "Hey," to Bob.

"Trix is in the kitchen," Patrick says, waving his cereal bowl at Pete to demonstrate. Pete gets his cereal and then squirms in between Patrick and Bob on the couch. He talks on and off throughout the cartoons, complaining about a celebrity party he has to go to tonight, giving Patrick the latest news from Ryan and the latest internet rumors. You probably wouldn't guess he was being unfriendly to Bob unless you knew him well.

Patrick thinks about calling Pete on it, asking him to be nicer, but Pete's coldness is likely because he's still hurt over Patrick moving here. And Patrick can't be angry, because Pete's actually taken the whole thing as well as could be expected, and Patrick still feels apologetic for moving out in the first place. Pete isn't really being at all rude. Patrick figures that he'll warm up to Bob sooner or later, probably sooner.

When Bob gets up to take a phone call, Pete turns to Patrick and waggles his eyebrows and says, “I know you had a crush on him last summer." 

Patrick groans. “How many times do I have to tell you that that crush only existed in your own deluded mind?”

“You _so did,_ ” Pete insists. “You were always over on their bus-“

“Because *you* were always there, with Mikey,” Patrick says, and he can’t help but laugh. It's okay to laugh, he's pretty sure Pete is joking, but Patrick can still feel a spark of annoyance creep in. For once, he just--he wants Pete to stay out of something. 

“You couldn’t resist his manliness!” Pete says with a melodramatic, accusing finger-point. “And now he’s hanging around with you shirtless. I don’t know about this, dude.”

Patrick leans forward to shut Pete up with a kiss, and Pete makes protesting noises against his mouth. “I had a crush on *you* last summer, dumbass,” he murmurs against Pete’s cheek. 

“Hmph,” Pete says, mollified as Patrick kisses down his neck. “Just watch out for your virtue, is all I’m sayin’. Oh, oh shit, dude, I have a photoshoot today, I can’t have a hickey.”

“Please don’t be gross on my couch,” Bob calls from his room, and Patrick snorts and pulls off.

“So he’s under strict instructions not to work today,” Pete says to Bob when Bob comes back. “And I’m not gonna be around, so it’s your job to keep him away from that infernal machine.”

“You can count on me,” Bob says, giving Pete a mock salute. 

“I most definitely am,” Pete says sternly as he leaves.

Patrick looks at him; Bob has his arms crossed over his chest and a small smirk playing on his lips. 

“Should I just block the door to your room? Or would you like me to hide your laptop?”

“I wasn’t planning on working today!” Patrick says defensively. “Honest. Come to Amoeba with me?”

Bob’s face lights up and he says “Hell yeah,” and Patrick thinks man, this guy is cool.

After they spend fortunes at Amoeba, they end up back on Bob's couch, playing Halo for hours, and the whole day is so relaxed it feels sinful to Patrick.

They talk about having a barbecue (they have a patio, but what's more, there's a pool and deck area on the roof of the building, just a floor above them), but Patrick doesn't realize until later that week that they've actually committed themselves to throwing a multi-band 4th of July party. Bob seems to be the one planning it, with the enthusiastic help of Frank and Jamia, and Patrick's fine with that--he doesn't need the distraction from the record.

Later that week Patrick comes home from the studio early, allowing himself a break, and for once Bob is home, too. They break out vodka and Guitar Hero, and Patrick enjoys the threats of ass-kicking and the ordering of pizza and the booze, savors how inconsequential this is. He does his best not to let his mind keep obsessing over the bridge that he can't quite get right, or the opening beats to this track that are still totally off. 

It’s kind of weird to see Bob giggle. His cheeks are red and he’s doubled over the plastic guitar, his forehead almost resting on the floor. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick says, the alcohol making his own cheeks warm. “You have the advantage, you’ve played more than I have.”

“Uh-huh.” Bob sits up and smirks at him. “You just got booed out on Easy, dude.”

“Whatever,” Patrick says, turning back to the screen with dignity. Bob cracks up at him, and Patrick knee-walks over to him, shoving him down. “I’ve had more to drink than you’ve had! You’re too sober, that’s the problem here.”

Bob opens his mouth to reply, then digs his sidekick out of his pocket when it buzzes. He frowns a little when he sees who’s calling, and answers “Yeah?”

Patrick can’t hear the other line, but he watches Bob’s expression get heavier, and he slumps back on his heels. “Oh, fuck,” he says. “Fuck, but uh. We kinda expected that, right?” 

Patrick can hear the other person’s voice rising, and then Bob cuts in again. “No, I’m not saying—right! Right, I didn’t mean to. Sure. Yeah—yeah, but I’m not *that* drunk.” He scowls on the last part, sitting back on his heels.

“Okay. Okay, yeah, of course I’ll be there. Bye.” Bob’s voice is subdued as he flips the phone shut and tosses it to the side. His head is ducked so that Patrick can’t really see his face. Even through the haze of inebriation, Patrick can tell the atmosphere of the room has changed—can tell that wasn’t a happy phone call. 

“What’s up? Who was that?” Patrick asks, nosier than he would be sober, but when Bob looks up he doesn’t look mad. 

“Brian.” Bob still has the video game guitar in his lap, and his fingers tap out a rhythm on the plastic frets. “Mikey’s not gonna make our meeting with A&R tomorrow, big fucking shock.” 

Patrick blinks at the sudden harshness in Bob’s voice. “Um. Has he been flakey or something?”

Bob winces. “Fuck, no. I didn’t mean—“ he looks up at the ceiling and blows a breath out, and when he speaks, Patrick watches the muscles in his neck, his jaw. “I’m not pissed at Mikey. At *all.* It’s just fucked up, you know?”

Patrick doesn’t actually know at all, but he nods. Bob pulls his guitar off and Patrick follows suit, sprawling next to him. 

“Mikey got out of this treatment thing a few weeks ago,” Bob says, in a rush, like the words have been pent up.

“What, like rehab?” 

Bob makes a face. “No, not, uh. Not really. He’s bipolar, and while we were recording he got—things got really bad.” 

Patrick sits and listens as Bob talks about it. The explanation comes hesitant and stilted at first, and then as Bob gets into the issues with Mikey, the old house, and the pressures of the album, his shoulders sag and his voice drops and relaxes. Patrick, on the other hand, starts feeling tighter, as if someone is winding him up inside.

“And it’s all just a big mess now,” Bob finishes, slumping further with his back against the couch. Guitar Hero stays paused on the screen, forgotten. “We’re finally getting somewhere with the album, but Gerard’s having a really hard time of it and Mikey’s barely talking to anyone.” Bob takes a deep breath, shuddering a little, and he doesn’t move away when Patrick puts a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t really know what’s gonna happen. With this album, with the band.”

Patrick remembers that feeling, remembers what it was like when Pete hit bottom and the future of Fall Out Boy was in no way certain. He remembers being so tired of the uncertainty and the drama that he wished they would all just quit already.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, and the words don’t convey any of what he means at all. “That really sucks.” He squeezes Bob’s shoulder and hopes that Bob gets it anyway, gets that Patrick’s here. 

Bob glances at him, then shrugs. “It’s getting better. Sort of, I think. It’s just—“ Bob picks at a loose thread in the carpet, glancing at Patrick again. “I feel sort of weird about it, you know? Like, the other guys, they’ve all known Mikey since forever, they’re all insanely worried about him. And I am, too, but I. I feel like I’m intruding, like I’m the new guy.”

“No way do your guys see you that way. I mean, I’m not in the band, I don’t know them like you do, but I was around a lot last summer. They were all crazy about you.” Patrick shakes Bob’s shoulder a little bit for emphasis.

The corner of Bob’s mouth lifts in small smile, then drops again. “Thanks. I just fucking wish there was anything I could do to make it better.” He looks incredibly sad for a moment, tired and bleak, and Patrick moves his hand to slide around Bob’s shoulders in a one-armed hug.

“You guys will be okay, I’ll bet,” Patrick says, and lets his cheek fall to rest against Bob’s shoulder. He feels Bob relax further next to him. “Mikey’s a pretty tough little dude.” Tougher than anyone really gives him credit for, Patrick feels, considering the shit he handled from Pete.

Bob laughs and leans in to Patrick. “Yeah. Yeah, well, here’s hoping.” He tilts his head so that he’s looking Patrick in the eye, and Patrick can feel Bob’s liquor-tinged breath slightly on his cheek, and his heart does a stupid skippy thing. It’s a stupid skippy thing that could be blamed on the booze, maybe, except that Patrick knows himself, and this is a familiar sensation. 

Patrick should probably look away from Bob now, but he doesn’t. “You’re a good guy,” he says instead. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Whatever,” Bob murmurs. “I’m really an asshole,” and Patrick wants to ask if Bob can feel it too, this shimmering thing between them, this thing that should be quashed. 

Bob is warm, Patrick can feel how warm he is, and Patrick is drunk enough that it feels like slow motion when he pulls himself back. Bob moves forward just slightly, an aborted motion like he thought better of it, and Patrick tucks his legs under him to sit indian-style, trying for casual and ignoring the way his heart is beating just a little harder.

"Want to go another round?" Bob asks, and Patrick realizes after a second that he means guitar hero. "Or just admit defeat now?"

"Whatever, you're on," Patrick says, turning back to the screen and picking up his guitar again. 

He loses track of time and isn't sure when they stumble into bed, the alcohol mostly worn off. Half-asleep in his futon, he can't stop hearing Bob's words repeating in his head, his fumbling explanations of the haunted mansion and Mikey's breakdown and Ray's anger, and _"I don't really know what's going to happen."_ Patrick pushes down the impulse to get out of bed and go to Bob, to talk to him some more, to press him for details. 

It's not that he needs to know the details, not that he's dying to know about the personal lives of My Chemical Romance. He just--he wants Bob to know that Patrick's here, willing and available to listen. He wants Bob to feel comfortable telling Patrick whatever he needs to. He just wants Bob, and Patrick feels fucking stupid for not recognizing this before, for thinking that his fascination was just--just finding a new god damn _friend_ or something.

He twists around in the sheets, strangely wide awake despite the booze and the AM hour. His brain can't stop niggling at this, this surprise that shouldn't be surprising at all, and he drifts to sleep imagining scenarios that will never come to pass, first kisses that he knows he doesn't _actually_ want--it's just his imagination, it's just 4am, it's just the first time he's been seriously attracted to someone else since he got together with Pete, that's all.

The next morning Patrick wolfs down a power bar for breakfast and doesn't see Bob before he heads to the studio. It's easy enough to push the whole thing out of his mind once he's in front of the microphone, and it's not like Patrick's never had a crush without acting on it before. This is just something he'll get past.

***

Every interaction he has with Pete or Bob seems heightened, and everything else--even the recording--seems dulled. Patrick feels nervous all the time, and he keeps expecting Pete to call him on the desire, to somehow know. 

It's not getting better, is the thing. Patrick tries to just ride the crush out and be normal around Bob, but any time their eyes meet he feels it get cranked up. He finds himself staring at the details of Bob's body, at the pale freckles on his forearms, at the scar on his leg from the gangrene, at his gauged ears. He's constantly snapping himself out of it, and he feels like his want must be visible from space. 

Sometimes he thinks he's hiding it entirely from Pete, and sometimes he thinks there's no way Pete doesn't know--that Pete is just waiting for the right moment to call him on it.

Even aside from this sudden thing with Bob, Patrick feels like he and Pete are off-kilter, more than they've been since Pete hit bottom. It's more bizarre than Patrick had expected to see Pete throw himself into life in L.A., to court the paparazzi, to pose for GAP ads. Pete is still the same, except for the ways in which he isn't, and it's not anything Patrick can put his finger on. He's withdrawing when he isn't in the public eye, and Patrick is withdrawing, too. They need to talk about things, about them, but Patrick is afraid to start that conversation because he doesn't want to talk about his thing for Bob, not yet. 

There have been plenty of periods before where Pete and Patrick snipe at each other more than they like each other, but somehow it feels sharper now, feels like a phase that might not end. It's scary, but Patrick keeps getting distracted from looking at it head-on. 

"Let's just come back to this later," Patrick says, one late night at the studio. "We're both fucking drained."

Pete snorts and looks away, but nods. "If you say so," he says. He stands and stretches, and he still has that mulish expression on his face, but he also looks fucking exhausted. Joe and Andy are already gone; they left when this argument started.

Patrick tosses the pages of music to the side and stands with him, yawning. "Where do you wanna get dinner?"

Pete still isn't really looking at him. "I've got to make some calls to the label," he says. "I'm busy tonight."

And suddenly Patrick is pissed off, fuming, and it's not because they're missing dinner together—he doesn't even know what it is, but his fists are clenched and he just wants to shake Pete and yell at him to _fucking pay attention._ He wants to ask him when they became so fucking stuck, when they stopped being friends, why Pete started changing.

"'kay," Patrick says. "See you back here tomorrow, then."

"Yep, right." Pete gives him a brief flash of a smile over his shoulder before he leaves the studio, and Patrick sits back down in his chair, slumps over and puts his head in his hands. 

Not for the first time, he wonders why Pete chose Patrick to attach himself to, out of all the people who'd be so eager to be his best friend—not to mention boyfriend. Why Patrick, when Patrick doesn't even understand him half the time, when Patrick doesn't get where he's coming from, when Patrick just isn't _good_ at this. 

When Patrick was eighteen, Pete had told him, "I need you around because you know I'm full of shit." He had grinned when he said it, and Patrick had rolled his eyes, and now Patrick is curious whether Pete still thinks he needs Patrick for the same reasons. Maybe now Pete needs Patrick to reassure himself that he isn't full of shit, or maybe he doesn't need Patrick at all. 

Patrick can't stop brooding about Pete's brush-off on his drive back home. Unless it's over something for the album, these days Pete never just comes out and says it when Patrick's done something to piss him off. He just acts cold or mean, leaving it up to Patrick to fumble around and try to fix problems that, half the time, are just in Pete's head.

By the time Patrick is letting himself into the apartment, he's gone over every single instance of Pete being passive-aggressive or needlessly frigid in the past two weeks, and he's in a self-righteous and horrible mood. He resists the urge to slam the door behind him and goes into the kitchen, yanking the fridge door open.

"What did the produce do to you now?" Bob is doing dishes, and Patrick realizes that he's scowling furiously at the contents of the fridge.

"Sorry," Patrick mutters. He grabs a coke and leans against the counter next to Bob. "Just—long day."

Bob gives him a curious look, but he nods and continues rinsing off the silverware. "Studio shit?"

"For starters," Patrick mutters, and gulps his soda to keep himself from saying anything else. He can still feel Bob's eyes on him, and then Bob turns the water off, placing the last few dishes into the dishwasher before turning and facing the wall with Patrick.

As he always is lately, Patrick is acutely aware of Bob's body warmth and how close he's standing. If Patrick moved just slightly to the right, his arm would brush Bob's. Patrick glances at Bob's arms: they're crossed over his chest and he's wearing a t-shirt, his forearms exposed, pale and covered with blond hair, slightly freckled. There's a small scar by his elbow and a light brown birthmark half-covered by his shirt.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Bob says, and Patrick looks back up at his face. There's that lip ring, distracting as always, and Bob's beard is longer than he usually lets it get.

 _You need to talk to Pete about this,_ a voice inside Patrick tells him, and he usually listens to that voice, he has all his life, and he knows he needs to now. 

"No," he says, answering Bob's question. "No, I'm good. Thanks, though."

Bob shrugs. "Anytime," he says, and Patrick pushes up on his tiptoes and kisses him.

Bob responds immediately, catching Patrick's arms and pulling him closer and bending down. He opens his mouth against Patrick and Patrick can feel the metal of his piercing, he can feel Bob's breaths hot on his mouth, he can feel his beard and he just wants more of this. The soda drops from his fingers and spills out frothy on the kitchen floor, the plastic bottle rolling away from them.

The next morning, Patrick wakes up thirsty and hot. His mouth is dry and there's sweat on his shoulder blades, on the backs of his thighs, and someone is sleeping next to him. He's still groggy and largely asleep, rolling onto his side to get in closer to the warm body next to him, when he realizes.

He stills, but his movement didn't wake Bob up. He needs to get up, shower, find out what time it is and then get down to the studio if it's that late (which it almost definitely is). He needs to get out of this.

He squirms out of the bed (his bed, that Bob is sleeping in, jesus) and fishes his cell out of his pocket: the time is 9:30. Yeah, he's late. 

He hears movement and when he glances over Bob is pushing himself up on his elbows. The sheets slip down over his chest and he's blinking at Patrick and yawning.

"Hi," Patrick says stupidly. "Uh. I'm late, I gotta--" He motions towards the bathroom and shower, and Bob nods, keeping his head ducked down.

"Right, yeah." He doesn't suggest they shower together, which Patrick is intensely relieved by. They sort of stay like that, Patrick crouching naked next to last night's pants with his phone in hand, Bob half-lying in Patrick's bed and not looking at him. Then Bob rolls over onto the floor and gets up, grabbing for his boxers.

"Gonna go sleep in my room," he grunts, and Patrick nods.

"Yeah," he mutters, and stands as Bob passes him. "Right, yeah."

He doesn't wake up entirely until the hot water's spraying him, and then he fully remembers the sequence of events that led to this morning. Something ugly is happening inside him; his inner organs are twisting and morphing, they must be, because he's changed into someone he wasn't just a few hours ago.

It's weirdly calming, or maybe he's just numb. Patrick showers fast and tries to not think about anything at all, and when he gets back out to his room there's a voice message from Pete, wondering where he is. Patrick texts him that he's running late, and Bob is in the kitchen getting a glass of water when Patrick goes in to grab an apple for breakfast.

Bob freezes when he sees Patrick, completely freezes, and Patrick can't meet his eyes. He keeps moving, retrieving his fruit from the bowl on the table, and when he glances over at Bob he blurts out, "I'm sorry."

Bob slumps over a little and he puts his glass of water down on the counter. Patrick notices that the soda he spilled last night is still on the floor, a sticky mess. 

"Aren't you running late, Mr. Workaholic?" Bob says in his default dry tone of voice, and it's almost like nothing happened. 

"Um, yeah, I've gotta go, I--see you later," Patrick says, and still doesn't meet Bob's eyes before he rushes out the door.

Pete shoves a cup of coffee in Patrick’s hand when Patrick walks through the studio door. “Nice of you to show up.” He’s smirking, but it’s not mean, and he bumps Patrick’s shoulder with his. It’s brief but the contact stays with Patrick, and he can still feel his skin warm at the point where Pete touched his shoulder when Pete moves away. It makes Patrick want to reach out and clutch and cling, to hold on to Pete the way Pete sometimes holds onto him. 

And maybe he could do that, maybe he could explain last night that way; maybe Pete would accept _Hey, I think I’m breaking down._ It would fit in with the kinds of lyrics Pete writes, and it’s even a little bit true right now, but it would still be dishonest; Patrick knows he can’t blame last night on anything except desire and a lack of will.

Patrick feels out of his body for most of the morning. At some point there’s a guitar in his hands, and Joe is handing him music that Patrick himself had written, but that still looks totally alien; Andy leaves to work on drum fills and Pete ducks out of the room on a label conference call. It’s just him and Joe, laying down the guitar parts for Me&You, and Patrick knew this is what was scheduled for today—knows exactly what he’s doing, and he still has to stop and start over and over. It doesn’t feel real.

Memories of the previous night keep hitting him with almost every chord he plays. He drinks more coffee and re-focuses on the music sheets in front of him and tries to keep his head clear. If Joe notices anything weird about him, he doesn’t mention it.

Eventually Pete comes back in, and then it’s time for arguing over the bass line. Which turns into a real fight, voices rising and Patrick doesn't even really know what he's saying or why he's so angry, but he knows Pete's giving him that look that drives him _crazy_ : that look that says _of course you don't understand_ , that look that lets Patrick know that Pete's already decided he's not going to listen to a word Patrick says.

Joe interrupts them before any screaming can really start. "If this is the Couple's Snit Fit Hour, I'm outtie." He throws up his hands and puts down his guitar and leaves; Patrick is pretty sure Andy is already gone.

When Patrick looks back at Pete, the knowledge of what he did with Bob swims back to the forefront of his mind, overriding whatever it is he'd been yelling at Pete about. But his anger doesn't drain away, and when Pete abandons the argument Patrick wants to yell at him to stay, to keep yelling, to get it all out. The tension and adrenaline aren't gone from his system until he's in his car, halfway home, and he has to pull over to the side of the road and slump over the steering wheel and shake. 

When Patrick gets back to the apartment, he braces himself before opening the door, but it looks like Bob isn’t home yet. Patrick breathes a sigh of relief and then feels annoyed with himself, because he can’t just avoid this by avoiding Bob—and anyway, it’s impossible to fully avoid someone when you’re sleeping on their futon. But for now he doesn’t have to look at Bob’s face and think about why.

Patrick drops his bag at the door and stands in the entryway of his own room. The sheets are still rumpled, and while you can’t tell from looking that two people were fucking here last night, Patrick can guess at the dried stickiness between the sheets. He strips the mattress and grabs the pillow cases, too; they have a service that comes and does laundry once a week, but he needs to take care of this now.

The laundry room is in the basement, and when Patrick is finished he walks past the front door of the building on the way to the elevator. He sees Bob outside, in profile, his shoulder leaning against the glass doors. He must have just gotten back: he still has sunglasses on and his keys are out. 

Patrick slows and stops. Bob is looking away from the building, out at traffic, pursing his lips and blowing out smoke. Patrick tells his feet to start moving again, but Bob turns his head and catches him. Patrick feels frozen in place, goggling and dumb, and Bob straightens up and puts the cigarette to his lips again, staring back at him.

Patrick mutters a curse under his breath and pushes the front door open, going outside. “Hi,” he says.

“Yo,” Bob says, and it makes a smile tug at Patrick’s lips. “Studio stuff go okay?”

Patrick thinks about the fight with Pete, and how he’s going to have to do most of his parts from today over again, because he was unfocused and he knows he’ll be dissatisfied with how they sound. “All right, I guess.”

Bob nods. “Cool.” The shades are still on; Patrick wishes he could see his eyes. 

Bob finishes his cigarette and puts it out in the ash tray, and Patrick follows him back inside. He still has his detergent in hand, swinging it by his side as he walks. Neither of them speak in the elevator up to the apartment. 

“You hungry?” Bob says when they get in the door. “I was gonna make eggs.”

He’s tossed his keys and the shades on the coffee table, and when he turns back to look at Patrick for an answer, his eyes are clear and sharp. They seem almost accusatory, and Patrick wants to look away.

“Um. Sure,” he says. When Bob goes into the kitchen, Patrick flops down on the couch, turns the TV on and starts flipping through channels. 

If it’s just once, then it’s an isolated incident. Not excusable, fuck no, but already over and just an aberration in the normal pattern (whatever normal pattern there is with Pete), not the start of something new. Patrick can move out of this apartment and then explain everything to Pete, and hopefully the honesty will be enough to make Pete forgive him. Patrick will forget Bob and Pete might write some vicious lyrics about Bob, but he’ll know that Patrick is his. 

“It’s done,” Bob calls out, and Patrick leaves the TV on VH1.

They actually eat at the kitchen table, instead of Patrick taking his dinner into his room to work and Bob eating in front of the TV. Normally they would be talking, too, Patrick bitching about his day (usually bitching about Pete, he realizes with a twinge of guilt) and the studio, and Bob bitching about his day and the studio or telling weird stories about his bandmates. But now the silence is a physical wall, tense and hot and making the hairs on Patrick's forearms stand up.

"Alicia flew back today," Bob says, his voice sudden and heavy in the heat. 

"Yeah? She was here?" Patrick wonders if he was supposed to know this already. For the past couple weeks, he feels like he's been oblivious to everything but the tensions in his own life.

Bob nods. "She came to help out Mikey. But she said he's fine now, and that she's sick of LA." He smiles and leans back until his chair balances on two legs. "He's been recording parts with us. It's a little better, at least."

"That's good, hey, that's awesome." And Patrick's a little surprised to find that he really does feel stupidly happy and relieved for Bob. He doesn't know how much it's genuine affection, as opposed to a desire to focus on something beyond his own problems, but he wants to hear what Bob's working on and cheer him on, he wants to be here to listen when things are bad with Bob's band. 

And Bob is looking at Patrick like he wants that, too. Patrick swallows and puts down his fork. He needs to say something to stop this. He needs to take some responsibility, because that's the kind of guy he's always tried to be. Patrick spent his adolescence watching Pete destroy one unhealthy relationship after another--hell, he learned how to write songs thanks to all the fallout. It gave him a sense of perspective and stamina; it's probably what helped him make the thing with Anna last for three years, long after it should have died. 

Now Patrick feels like he's losing that part of himself, or like he's already lost it. He's unsure whether it's been a sudden drop or a long slow slide, but either way, this is where he is now.

"Hey," Bob says. "Patrick--"

"Fuck." Patrick pushes his plate away and stands. "I should move out."

Surprise and hurt flash over Bob's face, and he stands, too. "Yeah? I guess you should." But he sounds like he's throwing it in Patrick's face rather than agreeing with him, and his desire shows clear and unhidden in his eyes when he steps forward.

"I'm not going to be this guy," Patrick says, trying to put all the surety he doesn't feel into his voice.

"I'm not asking you to!" Bob says, his voice high and frustrated. "But I--" his words cut out and he moves toward Patrick, his fingers barely brushing Patrick's arm, and Patrick jumps back.

The word 'no' is in Patrick's throat, rolling on his tongue, but he doesn't say it. He turns around instead, walking blindly out of the kitchen and towards his own room. He stares at his sheet-less futon, and he can hear Bob behind him. When he swings his arm back, his fingers hit Bob's shirt, and it's a clumsy uncoordinated movement to turn around and grab Bob and push him against the hall wall. Patrick flattens his body against Bob's, and he wants the kiss to bruise, he wants Bob's lips against his to knock teeth out of place like a punch would.

But it's just Bob's mouth, just Bob making a soft noise and getting his hand in Patrick's hair, knocking Patrick's hat off. He sucks Patrick's tongue into his mouth and when he groans, Patrick can feel the vibration. Their bodies are plastered together, and Patrick can feel it when Bob starts to get hard, too. He pulls his mouth away from Bob's and goes to his knees.

"Oh," Bob says, a choked watery sound. Patrick undoes his fly and every movement, his fingers fumbling with the button and the zipper sticking slightly, feels huge. When Patrick eventually gets his pants down Bob's dick is still mostly soft. Patrick pushes away the knowledge that this is it, this is the decision he's making, and leans in.

He can smell Bob, sweat and musk and dick, smelling just the way it tastes when Patrick mouths the head. He uses his hand on the length of Bob's cock, fast pulls to get him hard. It's an unbelievable turn-on when Patrick feels it growing and lengthening in his mouth, and he slides his lips down to take more in.

There's a pounding in Patrick's ears and Bob's hands are brushing his shoulders, his face, his hair. Patrick sucks and it's sloppy as hell--he's drooling around Bob's dick. And all he feels is greedy, he just wants more of this, he wants enough to drown himself in. He wants Bob's cock in his mouth pushing every reservation from his head. He doesn't want to be aware of anything else.

He can hear the desperate sounds Bob is making, incoherent vowels, hisses, and parts of words. Then he says "Hey, hey--" and nudges Patrick's shoulder, and Patrick pulls off. Bob's hips jerk forward and he comes with a grunt, his body shuddering with Patrick's fingers still wrapped around his dick. The spunk hits the carpet, and Patrick finds he can't stop staring at what's in front of him: Bob's pale thighs, the difference between his blonde leg-hair and the slightly darker pubes, the sweat on his skin, and his softening dick still glistening with Patrick's own spit. Patrick's pants feel uncomfortably tight as he remembers his own arousal.

Bob pushes Patrick back suddenly, hard enough that Patrick loses his balance and flops down on his back. And then Bob is crouching down and moving forward and kissing Patrick with his mouth open. Patrick lets himself be pushed down and gasps into Bob's mouth when Bob squeezes him through his jeans. When Bob gets Patrick's pants open enough to jerk him off, Patrick's hips are already pumping up into it, and he feels completely on edge, closer and closer. 

Bob ducks down to suck him, and Patrick comes almost immediately. Bob's hands are on Patrick's hips as his body tenses and he cries out, and Patrick can feel his pulse thudding in his ears and in his groin, and his mind is blissfully blank.

Bob sits up on his knees and Patrick stays lying on the floor, body limp and drained. They stare at each other, and Patrick has never seen Bob's face so red or his eyes so bright. Patrick knows he must look the same, panting hard like Bob is, shell-shocked like Bob looks.

So what the fuck; he's a horrible human being. Patrick can already feel himself adjusting to this new reality, adapting even though he can feel waves of panic just under the surface. Anger at Pete hits him: he's furious with Pete, fucking pissed off, angry at him for building Patrick up to be something he isn't; for picking fights like it's a competition; for being both suspicious and oblivious; for being so fucking fucked up. 

Patrick lets the rage and frustration with Pete dwell and build, and he's shaking with it when he sits up and moves forward and kisses Bob again. His pants are down around his knees and so are Bob's, and they're both sticky and disgusting. But Bob makes out with him like this, his hand clutching hard at the back of Patrick's neck and his beard rough on Patrick's chin. Patrick wonders if he'll get beard burn, and if that will clue Pete in. He wonders what the give-away will end up being.

He should tell Pete himself, of course, today or tomorrow, up-front while accepting the consequences. He should and he even feels determined to, but at this rate, Patrick doesn't have much faith in his own moral fortitude.

He pulls off from Bob and stands up, hitching up his pants. "I'm getting out of here."

It's not an invitation and Bob gets that, nods and stays when Patrick leaves. Patrick has no idea where he's going to go like this, crazed and stinking of sex, and he ends up not going anywhere. He just drives, getting on and off highways because he can't seem to stick with a decision. He can't even find the right music to get him the hell out of his own head, clicking around on his iPod between Prince, Jawbreaker, Billie Holiday, Ray Lamontagne and Bowie before he finally just gives up and drives in silence. Traffic is too heavy for the drive to be in any way satisfying or cathartic, and when Patrick ends up back at the apartment he's even further from calm than he was when he left.

***

Their Independence Day barbecue is a success with just the right amount of people to make a good party, but not too much to make things crowded, and Patrick doesn’t want to be here. He’s feeling unpatriotic, he’s sweaty, and his rum and coke is just making him queasy rather than taking the edge off. Pete is avoiding him; Patrick doesn’t know what he wants to say to Pete right now, but he knows he needs to face him. He can still feel Bob’s hands all over him from a few hours ago.

Patrick lets himself ricochet off groups of friends in conversations, moving from cluster to cluster until he finds himself in the kitchen, alone. He scowls at the marble countertops and pours the rest of his drink down the sink.

“Not in the mood to get plastered?” Bob’s voice behind him, dry and totally casual and making the hair on the back of Patrick’s neck stand up. He’s bright red, too, he knows he is, and he has to take a deep shaky breath before turning around to look at him.

“Hi,” Patrick says, and Bob’s eyes are blue as ever and impossible to hide from. “Yeah, not so much.”

Patrick can see Bob’s adams apple move when he swallows, and Patrick thinks _stay over there just stay over there_ but Bob is already moving toward him. He stops a foot away, leaning against the counter and staring down at the tiled floor. He’s so much taller than Patrick is.

“This party kind of sucks,” Bob says, first to his shoes and then at Patrick’s face as he glances up. “I’m not really feeling it, either.”

“Happy fourth of July,” Patrick says, and he wants to kiss Bob right now and shove him up against the counter, wants to lose it all in this. “Pete didn’t seem happy to see me.”

If Bob is upset to see Patrick mention Pete, he doesn’t show it. He tilts his head and gives Patrick one of those searching looks, and Patrick’s heart speeds up. “You two still fighting?”

Patrick just nods. He wants to tell Bob that he’ll leave Pete for him, and he wants to tell Bob to get the fuck away from him. He puts a hand on the counter, steadying himself and he knows he’s leaning in when Bob takes a step closer.

Bob’s hand comes up to brush Patrick’s forearm and he dips his head down, and Patrick thinks hysterically that he really must be certifiably insane if he’s going to do this when Pete is _outside,_ but it doesn’t matter and doesn’t matter and he’s already got a hand on Bob’s shirt--

“Hey Bobby, we need more ice” Frank bounces into the kitchen before slowing down and stopping, staring. Patrick doesn’t move back; he feels frozen, and he doesn’t let go when Bob steps hastily away from him: his fingers stay clenched in the fabric of Bob’s shirt and his arm stretches out horizontal in the air, and Patrick has to look at his hand and think _let go./i > His hand drops._

“I don’t believe this.” Frank looks pissed rather than surprised in any way, and he’s speaking to Bob and walking up to him. “Seriously? What the fuck are you *doing?*”

“Stay out of it,” Bob says, and Patrick has never heard Bob’s voice sound that harsh, especially not at Frank. But Frank looks just as mad, up in Bob’s face and with his finger stabbing at Bob’s chest.

“You know what this really is,” Frank says. “You told me—“

“How the hell is this any of your business? Bob snaps, brushing Frank’s hand away from him, and Patrick feels like he should say something, anything, but he feels mute.

“It is because I’m your friend and I care about you!” Frank is yelling now, and Patrick is so glad their apartment is soundproofed. “You know you’re going to get hurt!”

“I—I’m not trying to—“ and Patrick doesn’t even know what he was going to say, but Frank is already rounding on him.

“What, not trying to fuck his life up?” Frank is up in Patrick’s space now, his face flushed. Patrick is pretty sure that he’s had a few, not that it makes him wrong. “Leave Bob alone, okay, go back to your *boyfriend.*”

“Stay out of this!” Bob yells. “Just—fuck off, Frank—“

“You’re so fucking oblivious! You know that he doesn’t really give a shit—“

“Shut up,” Patrick says, and he can feel his own temper flaring up. “Shut the _hell up._ ”

“You know I’m right,” Frank says to Bob, as if Patrick hadn’t opened his mouth. “Bob—“

“Get out of my kitchen,” Bob says. His jaw is set and his eyes look like ice. Frank is backing away, looking hurt and furious, and part of Patrick sympathizes—can see where Frank is coming from. But Patrick is already moving closer to Bob’s side, and Frank storms back out to the patio.

Patrick breathes out through his nose. “He’s—probably right,” he says after a moment. “I’m not the best thing for anyone right now.”

“Fuck him,” Bob says, so decisively that Patrick’s heart twists up. “I really don’t care.”

“I do,” Patrick says. “I can’t do this to you, or to Pete. I—fuck.”

“Yeah, well.” Bob shrugs, then looks away out the window. “We should probably head back outside.”

The most significant events in Patrick’s life are almost never the ones he remembers clearly. He sees a flash of Frank talking heatedly to Jamia, their heads bent close together; then it seems as if Pete appears out of nowhere, and Patrick thinks he sees Frank say something to him but it’s all moving too fast; and he and Bob are moving towards them as Pete turns around, and Frank says “Shit, Bob I—“ and Pete says,

“Patrick?” Patrick feels his stomach drop at the sound of Pete saying his name, and he knows what’s coming. “What are you—with him, what’s going on?”

Pete looks actually hopeful, like he's too scared to be suspicious, or like he knows Patrick's going to say the right thing to make it all okay. But speech is impossible right now--all Patrick can think about is the way his body feels like it's sinking through the ground. 

Patrick doesn't know what's showing on his face, but when he glances at Bob, it's all there on his face, everything Pete could possibly need to connect the dots. It seems like the air changes. It seems like something stretches and snaps. Then Pete's face clouds over and when his fist connects with Bob's jaw, Patrick swears he can feel it too.

And then there's yelling and gasping, and Jamia is holding Frank back from getting at Pete, and others are moving in to hold Pete and Bob. But Pete is already backing away, and Bob just stumbled back with the punch. There's blood on his lip--shit, blood where his lip ring used to be--and Patrick realizes too late that he's at Bob's side, his hand steadying Bob's shoulder, and he knows it will look like a choice to Pete.

Patrick jerks his hand away from Bob's shoulder and twists around to meet Pete's eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, please, just let me--" and he was actually going to fucking say 'let me explain,' oh fuck, but Pete interrupts him.

"Go fuck yourself," Pete spits out, and then he's pushing through the crowd and Patrick feels like he's swimming through molasses when he goes after him, like his muscles won't work fast enough and he can't really breathe, and then Pete is gone.

***

Pete is not picking up his phone. The first time he calls, Patrick leaves a fumbling phone message, "Pete, hey, please, call me, I'm worried about you, I--I can't believe you punched Bob, we should--fuck." But after that he doesn't bother, just hangs up when Pete's voicemail message starts. 

After the fourth call, Patrick throws his phone across the room. It hits the wall with a clatter, and Patrick hopes it's broken, could go for some willful destruction of property. But the phone is fine, and Patrick picks it up again, tossing it between his hands and pacing for a minute before he hits send again, calls Pete again, hangs up again.

The end of the party is a blur. Patrick remembers some yelling, some people trying to ask him questions, remembers seeing Frank and Jamia come in to flank Bob on either side--and maybe Bob shoved Frank away, yelled at him, maybe Ray came over to mediate, maybe someone (Andy?) was at Patrick's side, asking repeatedly if he was okay. But Patrick finds himself alone in his room with his phone, staring dumbly at his futon and his laptop and all of his crap, calling and calling and calling. He doesn't hear Bob come in from the roof; he thinks that maybe his band whisked him away, maybe they're taking him to get his lip ring put back in. 

Pete left a hole in Bob's face. Patrick's mind keeps playing the punch over and over, the way the muscles in Pete's shoulder bunched, the way Bob's neck snapped to the side at the contact, the blood on Pete's knuckles right after. All his fault, and Patrick wonders if this is some kind of strange karmic payback for always being "the quiet one," "the stable one," to Pete's tornado. Right now Patrick feels like that was always bullshit, because he can't imagine Pete ever causing as much damage to anyone as Patrick has caused this summer. 

Fuck this. He needs to find Pete. 

He doesn't know if Pete went back home when he left, but Patrick doesn't know where else to go. He keeps calling him in the car, and even sends a text message _please let me talk to you_ , but he's not really expecting an answer. 

He feels coiled up, ready to explode by the time his car screeches into Pete's driveway. He's filled with the need to act, the need to yell at someone or beg or scream or just _fix this_ somehow. He runs up the steps to Pete's house and rings the doorbell, then knocks, then begins to pound and yell. "I'm not going away!" he hollers. "Pete, come on, _Pete_."

Either he's not answering or he's not home, and either way--either way. Fuck. Fuck. Patrick gives up after a while, lets his hands drop to his sides and sits down on the porch. He can wait. He can wait--

His phone rings, and it's Joe, and Patrick answers before he can really think about it. "Yeah?"

"Dude, what's going on? Is everything okay?" Joe's voice sounds caught between pissed and concerned. "Why the hell did Pete attack Bob like that at your place? I feel like I missed kind of a lot."

Patrick opens his mouth to offer some kind of explanation, then closes it again. "It's a long story," he says. "Pete and I--" He and Pete are what? _What?_ "Can I call you back later?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. Just, hey, let me know if I can do anything to help?" 

"Thanks," Patrick says, and hangs up. How is he going to explain this to Joe, to Andy, to the rest of their friends? To _Bob's_ friends? How is he going to put his life back together now? 

It's pretty unlike Pete to just sit inside with Patrick here, with the opportunity to have a screaming fight like none other right here, which leads Patrick to believe that he isn't home. Patrick wonders if this is the appropriate time to flip out, to call Pete's mom and their manager and the police, to break into Pete's place and find out how many of his meds are left.

He doubts it, though. He knows Pete, and right now Pete is probably too busy being furious (and shocked, hurt, devastated) and hating Patrick to focus on his own despair. And all of Pete's support systems now function as alarms when things get bad with him, and Patrick is fairly certain he doesn't have to worry--at least about that.

The horror of the situation is beginning to seep into his skin. Images keep floating back up behind his eyes, the look on Pete's face, the sound of Pete's voice asking what's going on. 

Patrick drives away. The thought of going back to his apartment, back to Bob, makes him ill even though he wants it. Bob is a great guy to have around when shit is going down, and Patrick's been turning to him to unwind when things with the band (with Pete) got stressful the whole time he's lived with him. 

Going back to Bob now, of all times, feels like an even worse kind of betrayal. On the other hand, he's already fucked up everything that matters to him, and going home to Bob right now really couldn't make it much worse.

Bob looks like he's doing even worse than Patrick is. He has huge circles under his eyes--not to mention the split lip and bruised jaw that Pete gave him--and he's in only his boxers, and Patrick can see an empty six-pack on the kitchen table. He's on the couch in front of the TV, and when he hears Patrick come in his head jerks up, twitchy in a very un-Bob-like way.

"Hey," he says, voice scratchy, before turning back to the TV.

Patrick hesitates, then sits down next to him. Bob stares at him like he's surprised to have Patrick sharing any kind of space.

"Hi," Patrick says. "Are you--um. How are you holding up?"

Bob shrugs. "I'm fine. It's, you know. Just one hit."

Shit, Patrick thinks. I really did fuck up everything that matters. "Right," he mutters, and he wants to put his head on Bob's shoulder, he wants to move his hand across Bob's stomach, he wants to fall asleep in his bed again.

"I'm sorry," Patrick tries. "I--I never meant to, uh. To drag you into all of my shit."

Bob looks at him again. "Don't be sorry. You have--just, don't. You don't need to be sorry."

It's all in Bob's face, how much he cares, how much he's hoping, how much Patrick has fucked him over. And Patrick--Patrick has never been clueless to how Bob really felt, even if he'd wanted to be. On some level he'd known that Bob didn't have amoral affairs with just anybody, but it was easier to continue his behavior if he pretended they were both just in it for the sex. 

And now--now. All of Patrick's lies have fallen through, including this one. He needs to move his shit out; he can't continue living here, not now, but. He curls a hand behind Bob's neck, his thumb rubbing at the skin there, and Bob looks down at the couch for a second before reaching out and pulling Patrick in.

***

His phone wakes him up at one in the morning, and it rings for so long as Patrick fumbles around to find it next to his bed that Patrick almost misses the call. He doesn't think to look at the ID before grunting a sleepy greeting into the phone, and hears,

"I'm breaking up the band."

Patrick sits bolt upright and feels awake, charged, terrified. "Fuck you. You do not get to make that decision, this is--no, we fucking *talked* about this when we first got together, you *promised.*"

"You wanna fucking talk about promises?" The tone of Pete's voice is what too-fucking-late sounds like, steely but devoid of emotion and completely final.

"I know. I know, Pete, I--"

"How long?"

Patrick bites his lip and doesn't pretend to not know what Pete's referring to. "Since. Um. About two and a half weeks."

The other side is silent for a while, long enough that Patrick is itching to say something, and then, "You fucking liar. It's why you wanted to move in with him, isn't it?"

" _No._ No, fuck, I swear I--" and his eyes are beginning to burn and this is not something he wants to do over the phone. "Believe me or not, I guess, but no. It hasn't been long, it hasn't been--I meant to--" he can't finish the sentence because he knows how flimsy it all sounds and what Pete will get from it. 

"We're not losing the band over this," he says eventually. "All of us have worked too hard for it to crumble just because I'm an asshole."

"I don't need the band. I've got the label, I've got the clothes line, I'll still have a career without Fall Out Boy," Pete says in that same final tone of voice, and Patrick suddenly has a horrifying vision of the years stretching out before him, of Pete living a celebrity life without FOB in it--maybe a reality show, maybe a full-time blogger or philanthropist or manager, but doing it all without Patrick in his life at all. 

He could do it. He could do it and Patrick could do it and their lives would probably both work out just fine, and Patrick can't think of a worse nightmare. 

"Can I come over?" he says, finally. "Or we could meet somewhere," he adds hurriedly when he hears Pete suck in a breath. "I just. Let's not decide this over the phone, okay? No irrational decisions."

Pete laughs. "You're the biggest fucking hypocrite in the world, wow. I wouldn't have guessed that. Guess I didn't know you so well after all, Stump."

Patrick tries to ignore that. "You can call me all the names you want, okay, I deserve them. But just--just please, man, don't throw away a band we've had for seven years over a relationship we've had for seven months."

"You're the one who threw it away," Pete says, and for the first time Patrick hears real sadness in his voice. But then he says "Fuck, sure, meet me at the Starbucks on my street," and that old voice is back, and Patrick's chest hurts when Pete hangs up the phone.

Patrick pulls on the closest clothing items on the floor, and Bob doesn't wake up when he leaves, and he breaks most traffic laws on the way over. The Starbucks by Pete's house is a 24-hour one, which Patrick has always thought must be an awful enabler for Pete's insomnia. Pete isn't there when Patrick gets there, so Patrick gets some coffee because he doesn't know what else to do, and when Pete walks in Patrick has drunk half of it and he's jittery. 

Pete is in his pajamas, and there's stubble on his chin and bags under his eyes. He doesn't have Hemingway with him. He stares at Patrick for a few seconds when he gets in, a look on his face like Patrick's a stranger, and then he orders a frappuccino. They sit down on the couch, and all Patrick wants to do, really, is hug him.

"I don't want to hear any fucking apologies," is the first thing Pete says. "I don't want to hear anything about Bob, or about us, or about why. I'm willing to discuss the future of the band."

So fucking formal, and Patrick feels a little like he's in the middle of some divorce settlement. Which, really... "Okay," he says. "Okay, I--I hope you change your mind, someday--"

"Don't hold your breath," Pete sneers, and the mocking gleam in his eye is one of the meanest looks Patrick has ever seen on him.

Patrick sucks in a breath. "Okay. Then. The band."

"Yeah." Pete laughs, a hollow sound that doesn't sound anything like the Pete Patrick knows. "Yeah, hey, why the fuck would I want to write songs with someone who made my whole life a lie?"

If Patrick had any doubts that this conversation was going to be as painful as bodysurfing over broken glass, they're gone now. Pete is looking at him smugly, like he thinks Patrick doesn't have an answer, like he's waiting to see how Patrick will argue his way out of this one.

"You'll regret it later if you do this," Patrick says eventually. "I know it seems like the only option now--"

"It doesn't, actually." Pete is suddenly leaning forward with a thoughtful expression on his face, his elbows leaning his weight on his knees. "I can see how we could keep the band even though I want nothing to do with you and you don't give a shit about me. It's just that, see--"

And Pete actually moves to touch Patrick, a move so unexpected that Patrick freezes with Pete gripping his shoulder tight. "See, ending Fall Out Boy would hurt you."

Patrick had somehow never pictured this stage when they first got together. He'd seen Pete with other exes, with Jeanae especially, he'd seen what Pete was capable of when he was wounded, but it never even occurred to him to worry for *himself* if things went sour. 

"God," Patrick says, and can't make himself lean away from Pete's touch. "You would do that, you'd seriously--" but of course Pete fucking would, right now he would probably cut off his own arm if he thought it might hurt Patrick. 

And losing Fall Out Boy wouldn't hurt Patrick, it would devastate him. Pete knows this.

"Yeah," Pete says as he lets go of Patrick. "Yeah, _seriously,_ " and all the venom that he's held back is in his voice now.

"Don't," is all Patrick can say. "Pete--" his jaw clicks shut and Pete doesn't say anything, just keeps looking at Patrick. Patrick's afraid of what he sees in Pete's face, more afraid than he's been of just about anything, and all he can do is put his head in his hands. He wonders if this is what Pete wants--Patrick being visibly lost, Patrick putting on a grief show.

And, actually. Maybe he should just give Pete what he seems to want. Patrick looks up. "Stay in the band and I will sing any song you want to write about me."

Pete laughs. "What? You already write me songs," and his tone of voice is just normal, just for a second, something closer to the easy affection they used to have (and it's already 'used to,' even though it's only been a few hours). It makes Patrick bite his lip and Pete seems to notice it, too, because he scowls. 

"I mean--whatever lyrics you want to write about this, what happened, what a dick I am. Whatever you feel. I'll write the songs and I'll perform them without objections." It's all Patrick has to offer, along with the hope that Pete will get that this is an option that will still hurt Patrick.

"Bullshit," Pete says. "We're not going to be a rock band where the singer sings about what a waste of space he is. Yeah, right."

"We'll make it work," Patrick says, and has a strange sense of deja vu to back when they first talked about starting this band, that initial excitement and the first plans. "Fucking--whatever, Pete. I will do anything to keep this band. _Anything._ "

Emotions flash and flicker over Pete's face, and the angry sneer again wins out. "Anything for the band, huh? It's great, you know, what you fight for and what you just fucking give up on."

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, blurts out because he needs to, needs to say it a thousand fucking times even if Pete doesn't want to hear it. "I'm sorry, you know if--"

"Fuck off." Pete stands and Patrick scrambles to his feet, too. "And fuck the band."

"No," Patrick says, and when he grabs Pete's arm Pete shoves him away. For a second Patrick thinks Pete will hit him, and he lets himself get angry in return for a few moments, the first time since before Pete found out. They stand glaring at each other, and over Pete's shoulder Patrick can see the barista pause in her cleaning, probably wondering if she should ask them to take it outside.

Pete turns on his heel and storms out of the cafe, and Patrick follows him. He doesn't make the mistake of trying to touch Pete again, but he does hurry and plant himself in Pete's way on the sidewalk, blocking him.

"What about Joe and Andy?" he demands. "And Gym Class, and the fans. This is so fucking selfish of you."

There's a bright look in Pete's eyes when Patrick calls him fucking selfish, and Patrick realizes that Pete's been *waiting* for him to get pissed off. "Wow, look at you, all considerate," he says. "I'll bet Bob appreciates that caring personality."

"You can't do this!" Patrick yells, explodes, and he can feel desperation seeping out every pore. "You can't fucking--this isn't yours to destroy!"

"Yeah, well I was yours!" Pete yells back. "You fucking clueless motherfucker, you fucking _knew_ that, and you--"

"I never asked you to be my anything! I never--you always expected me to fail in the first place, your twisted fucking mind games, I couldn't. Fuck."

"Yeah? Did I fucking _ask for it?_ " Pete seems to savor the last three words, every syllable dripping with self-loathing and satisfaction. His chin is jutted up and Patrick can't see his eyes in just the light from the Starbucks sign.

Patrick stares at Pete and feels himself deflate; the frustration and anger drains out, leaving tired sadness behind. "No. No, you just..."

Pete snorts. "Morgan, Jeanae, Mikey--trust me, I've noticed the pattern, I just never thought you'd fit into it."

Patrick looks up at the sky and blinks, hard. There's no fucking defense he can offer against that, not that he ever had one in the first place.

"I mean, what is it about me?" Pete goes on, and Patrick wishes that Pete had been the one who cheated. He wants Pete to have broken his heart, to have let him down like this, to have fucked over everything they had together, because that would be better than the way Pete's voice is wavering right now. "Like, do I. Is there a fucking sign on my forehead or something?"

Jesus. "I love you, okay? I love you and I'm still in love with you and if you'd have me back I would--" he stops because what the fuck is there to say? He knows Pete, he knows that nothing he can say will change Pete's mind on him, he knows that the most he can hope for is salvaging the band.

And, yeah, Pete takes a step back like Patrick had just spit on him. "You're such a fucking liar," he says before sidestepping around Patrick and walking quickly away.

"You're not going to break up the band," Patrick calls out at Pete's back. "You're not gonna cut me out of your life. You _can't._ "

He doesn't realize how true that is until Pete stills, but Patrick knows Pete and knows what Pete's capable of and who he needs. Patrick is the biggest scumbag ever for using it this way, but at this point he's already crossed so many asshole lines--what's one more?

"Watch me," Pete says, but there's already defeat in his voice. He walks away, back towards his house, and Patrick knows that Fall Out Boy will continue to be a band. 

Patrick walks around the corner to the parking lot, and stops before he reaches his car. He crouches down and digs his fists into his eye sockets and thinks about throwing up, making himself gag. Maybe it would help, or at least be a distraction, or something, something.

He gets up eventually. He drives back to the apartment in silence, and the sick thing is that he doesn't want to move out. He will, of course he will; he's already mentally scrolling through lists of hotels to check into tomorrow, planning time to pack all his shit. But he doesn't want to leave, because as far as he can tell Bob doesn't hate him and that apartment still feels comfortable. It feels like all Patrick has, in fact, at this point. 

But he can't keep his band alive if he's living with Bob, let alone sleeping with Bob. Patrick wants to throw a tantrum that this means he's losing the two people he cares about most, that there's nothing left for him. Part of him is relieved, though, because really, it's only fitting that he doesn't have anything good right now. He would hate himself more if he did.

***

Days pass and then weeks, and it gets worse with each day, not better. He’s had so many fights with Pete over the years, before and after they were more than friends, and they’ve gone without speaking to each other for days at a time. But those fights end; they’ve always ended. Every second that passes now with Pete unforgiving, the finality of the situation grows. Patrick can feel the grief and regret settle into his skin permanently, a wound that’s growing infected and deformed instead of scarring over.

Eventually, Patrick starts thinking that maybe Pete was wrong to think that the worst he could do would be to break up the band. Seeing Pete every day, having to go about every day activities while ignoring this gaping hole that is the lack of Pete’s friendship, having to face the reality that it’s over all the fucking time—it’s worse, it’s fucking worse, and Patrick’s becoming increasingly convinced that he’s cut the most important part of himself out.

He’s spending his rock star money on living in a hotel room. He can’t bring himself to look for apartments, doesn’t want to think about more months in this godforsaken city. In his hotel room he can go to sleep and pretend it won’t be sweltering hot when he wakes up, pretend that he might open his eyes to find he’s in Chicago in winter, with Pete still by his side.

He’s almost always thinking about Bob in the back of his mind. He thinks about the way Bob didn’t look at him when Patrick moved his stuff out; he thinks about the tone of Bob’s voice right before Pete found them out, the way Bob had been so sure that he didn’t care what Frank thought. Part of Patrick keeps waiting for Bob to call, or send an email, or just show up outside his door. Pete’s absence is a pain so deep that Patrick has to be numb to survive it, but Bob’s absence stings sharp every time Patrick remembers it, something new that’s been rashly thrown away when it could’ve been amazing. 

Patrick’s never been afraid of being alone before, but it’s different now. He doesn’t want to be in his own head, doesn’t want to live with himself, doesn’t want to try and get through this by himself. He stays late at the studio, because when he’s alone there at least he has his music, but one night as he’s wrapping up he starts scrolling through his contacts until he pauses at Bob’s number.

He’s not even a decent enough person to deny himself what he wants in order to get Pete back. It’s giving up for good, he knows it is, but everything he’s done so far is unforgivable, and this—with this he can at least try to make amends for hurting Bob. 

_i miss you. still want to see you._ He sends the message and sticks his phone in his pocket and drives back to the hotel, and it doesn’t vibrate against his leg until hours later, when he’s in his room alone.

_come over?_

It feels strange to knock on Bob's door instead of letting himself in. Bob opens it fast enough that Patrick knows he's been waiting by the door, and Patrick takes one step inside before Bob is cupping his face in both hands and kissing him. 

Patrick shuts the door behind him and kisses back. Bob keeps pulling off and then kissing him again, brief needy points of contact and sharp desperate noises. Patrick is relieved that he doesn't have to pretend he came over for any other reason. Bob wants this, Patrick wants this, and right now Patrick wants to ignore any other factors. 

Bob is grabbing at Patrick's shirt and petting over his back, but he doesn't seem to be trying to get his clothes off, and Patrick isn't really putting any effort into that, either. He's seriously fucking missed Bob, he's missed kissing him and touching him and just looking at him and being around him, and--and this is right, even though it's wrong. Even though he still feels like a horrible person, this is right, him and Bob. 

Bob is panting when they stop making out, and he rests his forehead against Patrick's. All the lights are off, Patrick notices for the first time, and he can't make out Bob's face at all. 

"You and Pete," Bob says eventually. "Are you still..."

"No," Patrick says. "We're very over." The words feel slimy coming out of his mouth.

"I'm glad," Bob says, voice low. "Sorry, but I'm glad."

Patrick can't say the same, not at all, but at the same time he wants to tell Bob that he has nothing to be sorry for. He wants to keep kissing Bob until sorrow is the furthest thing from Bob's mind.

"Your room?" Patrick says.

Bob takes Patrick's hand and leads him back, and when Patrick glances in at his old space he sees that Bob hasn't even put away the futon. Patrick holds Bob's hand tighter, and when they sit down on the bed Patrick tugs him until they're both lying down.

Bob's movements are less immediate now, and Patrick just plants slow kisses on his neck before resting his head in the crook of Bob's shoulder. He can feel and hear Bob breathing. Bob's arm comes up to wrap around him. 

"I want to do this for real," Patrick says, half into Bob's shoulder. "Do it right this time."

Bob doesn't say anything for a while, just strokes his thumb lightly up and down Patrick's arm. Then, "Are you asking me out?"

Patrick snorts. "Yeah, uh. Pretty much?" He pushes himself up onto his elbow and looks Bob in the eye. "I'm serious, if that's what you mean."

Bob looks back. "I've always been serious about this."

Patrick swallows hard. "I--I should have realized. Fuck. I'm sorry I've fucked up everything so--"

Bob sits up and kisses him hard, his tongue in Patrick's mouth and his lip ring bruising. Patrick clings and sucks on Bob's tongue and gets into his lap, and he doesn't want to talk anymore, he doesn't want to fuck, he just wants to spend the night here and be close like this. Just like this. 

***

They fall asleep together, and shower together the next morning, and then Bob makes scrambled eggs. Patrick sits backwards, straddling the back of the chair, and watches him. Bob has a smile tugging at the corner of his lips and he keeps glancing over at Patrick. Patrick smiles back. He's paying attention to this, to the sense of calm and the quiet excitement in the air. It's new and it's--it's making him happy.

He doesn't deserve it, but it's here all the same. Patrick stands and comes over behind Bob, wrapping his arms around his waist, and Bob snorts softly.

"Thank you," Patrick says.

Bob cranes his neck to look Patrick in the eye. "For what?"

Patrick shrugs and presses his palm against Bob's hip, the bare skin where Bob's sweatpants have slipped down. "You haven't really seen the best parts of me. Thanks for just..." His face is so red, he's sure of it, and he doesn't even really know what he's trying to say, but he knows he's grateful, even despite all of it.

Bob takes Patrick's hand off his hip and turns around so that they're facing each other. "I wasn't exactly a prince myself," he says. As always, he's hard to read; he's not smiling, but he doesn't look upset.

"I know, but I." Patrick trails off, trying to think of how to articulate what he means. He needs Bob to get it. 

"I feel horrible about what happened with Pete and I regret doing it the way I did, but I don't regret you," he decides on. 

Bob turns around to poke at the scrambled eggs, keeps them from sticking to the bottom of the pan before looking at Patrick again. "I wanted this since the first day you moved in," he says, the tone of his voice carefully flat. "I was pretty much always going to go after you, regardless of who else you were with. So, hey, it's directly my fault that your relationship with your best friend is so fucked, and I would probably do it again, because I wanted you that much."

He turns the burner off and moves away from the stove; Patrick guesses that the eggs are done. Bob looks a little angry now, his eyes glittering and tension in his shoulders, but Patrick isn't sure who he's angry at. 

"If you're asking for my forgiveness or something, you never needed it in the first place," Patrick says. "I hate that I wasn't honest with you, but it was never just sex for me, it was never--"

"I'm in love with you." Bob says the words quickly, almost mutters them, and then flushes. He's staring at Patrick almost defiantly, like he's expecting a fight. The words hang between them solidly, and all Patrick can think of to do is warn Bob away, tell him to get the fuck away right now, because he's the worst person to fall in love with.

"Is it... okay if I can't answer that right away?" Patrick says instead. Bob's mouth twists, and Patrick reaches out quickly to touch his wrist. "It's not that I don't, it's just--um. Everything's a mess right now. I don't know how I feel about anyone."

Bob makes a noncommittal noise, and Patrick tugs on his wrist, stepping into his personal space. "Can you accept that? For now?"

"Yeah," Bob breathes out, and when he looks down at Patrick, Patrick feels like--he feels like he does when he's singing, like he's someone beyond his regular old self.

"I know that I want you," Patrick says, his hand sliding up Bob's arm. "I know that I want us. This."

Bob ducks his head and Patrick pushes up on his toes and they kiss, and Patrick thinks wow, fuck, this guy is in love with him. He doesn't know why and he knows he hasn't done shit to deserve it, but he believes Bob when he says it; believes that he has it. It's the most unexpected gift he's ever received, and Patrick can't think of anything he's ever been more grateful for. 

***

“Where are you living these days?” Bob asks him that Friday night when they’re both lying on the couch and the credits for the movie they’d caught on cable are beginning to roll. Patrick is sprawled in Bob’s lap, almost on top of him, his head resting on Bob’s shoulder and Bob’s arm around him.

“Mm.” Patrick lets his head loll so that he’s looking up at the ceiling, not at the TV. “The Marriott.”

“Wait. Seriously?” Bob’s hold on him tightens just slightly, and Patrick can feel Bob shifting around a little behind him. “You’ve been holed up in a hotel since you moved out?”

“Well, yeah.” Patrick squirms to sit up enough that he can turn and look at Bob. “I kept meaning to get my own place, but, um. The idea of getting another apartment was really depressing.” 

“So come back.” Bob’s hand moves to cup the back of Patrick’s neck, his thumb brushing at the skin and short hairs there. “You won’t have to sleep on the futon this time.”

“That probably wouldn’t be a good idea,” Patrick says. God, he wants to. “I was only barely able to convince Pete not to leave the band. If I just move back in with you, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

Bob presses his lips together. “You’re dating me either way,” he says. “I think he’s going to be pretty pissed off, even if you stay in your hotel.”

Which, yes, point—at this stage, there’s not really much Patrick can do to make Pete feel *worse* about him. “True. I guess this already looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?” 

“Heh. Yeah.” Bob’s eyes dart to the side and his expression changes just slightly, just barely this side of hurt, and Patrick leans in, kisses him.

“I don’t care,” he says. “I don’t care how it looks. I’ll move my stuff back tomorrow.” It’s slightly a lie; of course he cares how this looks to Pete, how it’ll make Pete feel. He just doesn’t care enough to hurt Bob.

“Yeah?” Bob’s other hand is on Patrick’s side now, pushing up under Patrick’s shirt. “You really want to?”

“Of course I do.” Patrick moves onto his stomach and straddles Bob. Bob has Patrick’s shirt pushed up into his armpits, and Patrick strips it off. “As lovely as The Marriott is, man, you kind of have it beat.” He leans down to nip at Bob’s lip, emphasizing the point.

Bob pinches Patrick’s nipple and pushes his hips up. “I won’t be able to provide room service.”

“I’ll manage without. It’ll be hard, but.” Patrick grinds down and kisses Bob’s jaw, ear, neck. He hides his grin against Bob’s collarbone. He feels giddy, he feels good about this, even if there’s still sorrow and guilt twisted up alongside the optimism. 

It’s scary, too, plenty scary—not the terror he felt when he and Pete first got together, the crazed fear that would keep Patrick awake at night, wondering if he was going to lose his best friend if this didn’t work out. (And the fear was justified, sure, but not in the way Patrick expected then; when they started the mess, Patrick would never have guessed that *he* would be the one to ruin everything.)

But this thing with Bob is new, and it might work or it might not, and the not knowing for sure is always the scary part. Patrick feels most comfortable investing in good bets.

But as Bob pushes him off the couch and takes Patrick’s hand, pulling him into the bedroom with his breaths harsh and his hard-on obvious through his pants, Patrick doesn’t really give a shit about the fear.

Lately, Pete’s fury at Patrick seems to have settled a bit. It hasn’t lessened, definitely not, but Pete mostly lashes out at him through lyrics in emails now—in the studio, face-to-face with Patrick, he’s just frigid. It’s still painful to bear, but in a different way, and Patrick is certain that he’s going to explode the calm once again when he talks to Pete about Bob.

When Patrick asks Pete if he can talk to him alone, Pete flat-out refuses. Patrick has to lie to get Joe and Andy out of the room, and he grabs Pete’s elbow when Pete tries to leave after them. 

“I’ve moved back in with Bob,” Patrick says, because there’s no point in trying to sugar-coat it. “We’ve started dating.”

“Wow,” Pete says. “How do you sleep at night? How do you *live* with yourself? Like, seriously.”

“I’m not telling you to hurt you. I just didn’t want to be dishonest again,” Patrick says, cringing. He knew this conversation was going to make him feel like the scum of the earth, it’s not a surprise, but still.

“Oh, then good for you. Major karma points for _honesty_ ,” Pete says, his voice weighed down with so much sarcasm Patrick’s surprised he can even form words.

“I know, okay? And I’m fucking sorry, but I—I’m not asking for your approval. I just didn’t want you to find out some other way.” Patrick lets go of Pete’s arm and Pete steps immediately back, rubbing at his elbow like Patrick had bruised it.

Pete is quiet for a moment, his head bowed so that all Patrick can see are his bangs covering his face. Then, “I guess you weren’t cheating on me for the hell of it, then. You really did just find someone else.”

Patrick swallows. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Oh, what-the-fuck-ever,” Pete says. “You have my blessing. I hope you both get hit by a bus tomorrow.” He gives Patrick one last look of pure disgust and leaves the room.

Patrick relays the conversation to Bob that night. They’re both in bed, ready to sleep, and Bob’s finger draws idle patterns on Patrick’s stomach as Patrick talks. 

“I’m sorry he’s still being cruel to you,” Bob says when Patrick finishes. 

Patrick shrugs. “He’s Pete. And he’s only acting this way because I hurt him so badly.”

“Still.” Bob is frowning a little, on Patrick’s behalf. Patrick reaches out to touch the corner of Bob’s mouth, where the bruise from Pete’s fist has just recently faded, and thinks about loyalties, when they shift and when they don’t.

“Thanks. You’re sweet,” Patrick says, and grins when Bob turns his face to kiss Patrick’s palm.

Things in the studio reach a sort of equilibrium. Patrick focuses on the music, Pete focuses on every opportunity to be hostile, Joe and Andy maintain a careful politeness towards Patrick that still betrays that they’ve chosen a side, and it’s not his. It’s a shitty dynamic for a band and for four friends, but Patrick finds that it’s hard for him to get upset about it every single day. It’s not that he doesn’t care, but he has Bob now, and he’s letting himself be distracted.

Neither of them really have a lot of time to do anything but fall into bed together at the end of the day, but it’s good. It’s good to learn Bob in this whole new way, to wake up with their bodies touching, to have video game sessions end with making out. It’s not something they had when they were fucking while Patrick was still with Pete—everything was too tense, the atmosphere of the apartment too thick with guilt and confusion for them to be happy this way. And the thing with Pete had begun with them falling together in buses and hotels, fitting a relationship into touring. This kind of learning is new for Patrick, and he’s trying to enjoy it.

There’s still a massive hole in his life where Pete used to be, and that's not getting any better, but he can get through the days like this, with Bob and without Pete. He thinks about the years expanding until he’s known Pete as not his friend longer than he’s known Pete as his friend, and maybe they’ll both just get used to it. Maybe Patrick will find another best friend, someone else to be his other half.

The thought makes Patrick feel like a hollowed-out shell. He can’t picture it.

Patrick gets the phone call at three am, the loud ringing waking up both him and Bob, and he's really tempted to just let it ring but he still answers. "'lo?"

"Patrick," says Pete, and Patrick is suddenly wide awake. "Patrick Patrick I need you to come over, I need--please, please come over."

Patrick stares up at the ceiling and the shadows cast by the window shades. His brain can't even process that Pete is calling him, let alone asking this, and the only thing he can think of to say is, "What, like--now?"

"Yes!" Pete says, his voice explosive and crackly on the other end. "Yes, fuck, I'm not okay, I'm--I just fucking need to talk to someone. Someone here."

"Have you taken anything?" Every time Patrick starts thinking of spring 2005 as a long time ago, every time he thinks the memory's faded, something happens and it's like he's still hearing the news on the plane to Europe, like the whole ordeal is still present and sharp.

"Not yet," Pete says, and Patrick throws off the sheets and stands up out of bed, looking for his pants. "Just, god, get over here, can't you? Just fucking leave your boyfriend for one fucking night."

"I am, I'm on my way, okay?" Patrick is pulling his jeans up and he can hear Bob behind him, sitting up in bed. "I'll be there soon." Pete disconnects the call before Patrick can, and Patrick can feel his pulse going overtime as he shoves his phone in his pocket. 

Patrick glances over his shoulder at Bob, who is yawning wide and looks mostly still asleep. "Sorry for waking you. I've gotta go for a bit, okay?"

Bob stares for a few moments, then nods and slumps back in bed. Patrick throws on a t-shirt and grabs his keys, and it's not until he's speeding in his car that it occurs to him to wonder why the fuck Pete is calling _him_ at a time like this. Patrick has got to be the last person in the world that Pete wants to be vulnerable in front of right now. 

Maybe it's some kind of trick to hurt him, or maybe at this point it's just automatic for Pete to want Patrick when he's hysterical. Maybe this isn't something Patrick should encourage. Maybe he shouldn't have said yes so quickly.

He gets to Pete's place and Pete opens the door when Patrick is still on the steps. Pete's hair is soaking wet and he's got a towel wrapped around his waist, and for a second Patrick wildly imagines that this is some crazy seduction scheme, but Pete is walking away from him into the living room. He sits down on the sofa chair and fuck, he's seriously shaking, and there is no way that Patrick should be the only one here to handle this; no way that he's all Pete needs.

"Did something happen?" Patrick says. When Patrick sits down next to him, Pete doesn’t move away. It’s a victory, but Patrick doesn’t push his luck by reaching out any further and trying to hug him.

"Aside from the obvious? Yeah, no. Nothing new." Pete's voice is strained and thin, like he's having a hard time pushing the words through his lips. He puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and Patrick wants to put a hand on his shoulder so badly, but he stays still and waits for Pete to explain.

“Maybe you were right,” Pete says into his hands. He lifts his head and turns away from Patrick. “Maybe I can’t cope without you.”

Patrick balls his hands into fists at his sides. “I don’t want to try and cope without you,” he says. “You’re my best friend in the world, okay? And I don’t care how much you hate me, on my end it’s never going to change. I can’t stand being separate, I can’t take--" 

“Yeah fucking right!” Pete goes from 0 to 60 in a second, quiet and curled in on himself one moment and standing, yelling the next. “You’ve already moved on, you’ll get by, you’re doing just fucking fine! You’re always fine, you’re not like me, you’re not this fucking weak!” He breaks off and punches the wall, his hand breaking the plaster, and Patrick jumps to his feet.

“Jesus, Pete.” Pete’s knuckles are bloody and there’s dust all over his hand. Patrick is at his side, gently taking his hand to look for damage, but Pete shoves him away. He spins wildly and then he’s grabbing a lamp from the coffee table and throwing it across the room. It hits the opposite wall, glass shattering everywhere. Pete starts towards his X-box but Patrick grabs him again, wrapping his arms around Pete’s torso and holding him back. Pete stamps on Patrick’s foot and Patrick yelps, and when Pete struggles, Patrick loses his balance and they both end up on the floor.

Pete gains the upper hand, rolling on top of Patrick. Patrick expects to get hit, but Pete just rolls off again, crawling a few feet away and slumping against the couch. He stares at Patrick, panting, and Patrick stares back.

“Don’t start this shit,” Patrick says eventually. “I’m not worth this.”

“Yes you are,” Pete says, and he doesn’t sound impassioned anymore—just tired. “You’re everything.”

Patrick opens and shuts his mouth. He’s unprepared, as always, for the way Pete can simply spill all of himself like that. 

“I’m not doing as well as you think,” he says eventually. “Just because we’re not together anymore doesn’t mean I don’t need you.”

Pete sneers, but he doesn’t deliver a nasty reply. He thunks his head back against the couch twice, and he doesn’t move when Patrick scoots and sits next to him, their shoulders touching. 

“I know I seriously fucked up,” he says. “But I’m still *here.* I’m always going to be available for you to call up in the middle of the night.”

Pete pulls his legs up to his chest and rests his cheek on his knee. “Okay,” he mumbles, and Patrick knows it’s not forgiveness so much as acknowledgement that some things can only change so much.

Patrick doesn’t know what else to say, and he’s not going to push it. Eventually Pete looks up and says, “I hate this. I hate that it’s more than a year later, but I feel the same way, and I’m still on the same fucking pills."

“You don’t feel that way all the time,” Patrick points out. “And the meds are good for you, they’ve helped you.”

“Bull,” Pete says. “The only difference is now I’m a fucked-up chemical addict, and then I was just a fucked-up crazy person.”

Patrick almost reaches out to touch Pete’s knee before he catches himself. “That isn’t true,” he says. “You’ve gotten so much healthier in the past year. I’ve been paying attention.”

Pete looks at him. "Yeah, because I was dating you. I'm fucking alone now." He doesn't sneer or glare, which makes it even worse, and Patrick swallows around the lump in his throat.

Apologizing again won't really do jack, though. "Give yourself more credit," he says. "You were doing amazing things with Decaydance before we got together. You successfully fronted a band that headlined Warped, you were the one making the decisions when Sugar went crazy the way it did."

"I was with Jeanae," Pete says. "Then Mikey."

"And soon you'll probably find someone else," Patrick says, and wow: the way that thought fills him with terror catches him with surprise. Because no, no, _no._ But Pete needs him to keep talking, so: "And you'll be okay until then, and you'll be okay after. You've _been_ okay."

Pete's expression doesn't change. He looks away from Patrick after a few beats, and jiggles his knees a bit.

"Okay," he says. "I'm good now, so leave."

"What?" Eight years of knowing Pete, and he still gets caught off-guard all the fucking time.

"I feel okay now. I don't need you to be here." Pete's voice is clipped as he stands, and Patrick scrambles to his feet, too.

"Are--are you sure?" Patrick says. "You really feel good about things now?"

"I said I was okay," Pete snaps. "So get the fuck out."

"I can stay if--"

"Are you not fucking hearing me? I told you to _get out._ " Pete's glaring now, backing away, and Patrick feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

"All right, jesus," Patrick says, moving towards the door. "I just, Pete--"

"I will fucking call security on your ass," Pete growls, and Patrick throws his hands up in the air and leaves.

Patrick doesn’t get back to the apartment until it’s nearly light outside. He’s not tired at all; he feels keyed up, like all of the emotions from the fight with Pete have acted as adrenaline in his system. He tries to let himself in quietly, but Bob is already up, sitting on the couch when Patrick closes the door behind him. Patrick walks over to him, resting his hand on Bob's shoulder and stroking his thumb up Bob's neck. "Hey."

“What was that all about?” Bob says, looking up at him. 

"Pete." Patrick hesitates. There's not really a way to say this without it coming across weird. "He.... he was having a bad night, he asked me to come over."

Bob's gaze shifts away. "Ah. What did he want?"

Patrick closes his eyes and sees the hole in the wall that Pete’s fist made. He doesn’t know what Pete wanted, or what he wants now. “He was—he needed to talk to me, that’s all.”

“Did you guys make up?” Bob is still staring away from Patrick. Little warning bells go off in Patrick's head, but he's too exhausted and distracted by Pete, still, to pay them any attention.

“I don’t know. It’s complicated.” Except for the ways in which it isn’t: Patrick would be over there again in a heartbeat if Pete wanted him back, and that’s the simplest thing in the world.

Bob doesn't say anything else, and Patrick squeezes his shoulder. "Come on. Can we go back to bed? I need sleep."

Bob starts a little and looks back up at him, almost like he'd forgotten Patrick was there. He stands, and Patrick's hand drops from his shoulder. The expression on his face is way too serious, and those warning bells are going crazy, and Patrick opens his mouth to say something, anything, to cut off whatever might be coming, but Bob is already speaking.

"I'm leaving at the end of the week," Bob says. "The band is leaving for album promo and then touring."

"Shit," Patrick says, swallowing. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I meant to. But I wasn't sure if... " Bob ducks his head and is quiet for a few moments. Patrick can hear both of their breathing, heavy in the middle of the night, and he doesn't want Bob to speak again and finish this thought. He wants to go back to bed with him; he wants to continue the way they were. 

"I don't think we should keep in touch," Bob says finally, his voice tight, and Patrick feels like someone poured a bucket of ice over his head.

"What?" he manages. "You--you want this to just be over. What?"

"It's not working," Bob says. "You and me, we're not--" he takes a deep shuddering breath and when Patrick moves in closer, Bob steps back. 

"But--" Patrick starts, but Bob keeps going.

"I think you care about me," he says, his voice stilted but sure, more decisive with each word. "I mean--fuck, I know you do. But he calls you at three in the morning, and you--"

"You don't think I slept with him, do you?" Patrick says, and he wants to argue this, wants to give Bob a hundred and one reasons why he's dead wrong. "He was just having a bad night, we *talked.* He needed me, I couldn't--you can't ask me to not be there for him!"

"I'm not! I don't--I don't think you're wrong, or cruel, or--" Bob breaks off and laughs, scrubs a hand over his beard and rubs at his neck. "But I can tell when I've been beat, okay? I can tell that you and he are..."

"Are _over_ ," Patrick says. "That's what matters, isn't it?"

Bob laughs again; not a nice sound, not a happy one. "Fuck, do you even have any idea what you look like to other people? Do you even--" he stops, shaking his head, and looks up at the ceiling. "You know how I feel about you. I thought it would be enough, if I had you a little bit, I thought I could just. Deal."

"Bob--"

"And it turns out that I can't," Bob says in a rush, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels. "I can't just be second, I can't just be less to you than you are to me."

Bob looks back at him, meeting his eyes. Patrick wants to deliver a million retorts and objections, he wants to show Bob that he’s wrong, but all he can do is stare. He feels weirdly out of his own body, like he’s just an impartial observer watching this happen to someone else. Bob is only a few feet away from him, but the distance seems longer, seems unbridgeable.

“I know I’m kind of fucked up right now,” Patrick tries. “With Pete, I—I mean, we were together for so long, and I know it must seem—it’s been hard.” Patrick has no idea what to say, no clue how the hell he can explain him and Pete. 

“It’s okay. I mean, I get it, and I don’t, uh. Blame you.” Patrick has never seen Bob look so closed-off, or at least not with Patrick. Bob’s been open to him since the beginning, and now his body is tense and his voice is bleak.

“Blame me! Blame me, I’m a shitty boyfriend, I’m having trouble getting over my ex, whatever, but we can _keep trying._ ” But Bob is already shaking his head. He gives Patrick a tight, sad smile, and Patrick feels suddenly tired of this. He shuts his mouth and doesn’t protest anymore, just stares as Bob moves to grab his keys and his sunglasses from the coffee table. A part of his brain registers that Bob is fully dressed, has been since Patrick got here, and why didn't Patrick notice that? Why didn't Patrick realize that Bob clearly wasn't still in his pajamas, waiting for Patrick to come back to bed, that Bob was already ready to leave. 

“I wish things were different,” Bob says. “I wanted—“ He doesn’t finish the sentence, just looking at Patrick instead, an inscrutable look on his face. Patrick stares back, and he has a funny image of them just staying like this, standing in Bob’s living room forever, paralyzed by this whole situation.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and “I’m sorry” because he doesn’t know what else to say. This is a different kind of adjustment to his reality than losing Pete was; this feels like a reinforcement of his seemingly endless ability to hurt people, or the anticlimactic end to a particularly bitter chapter of his life. It’s not his foundation crashing to the ground, and even already he knows it’s not something he won’t be able to get over. Maybe that’s why Patrick mostly just feels numb and accepting, why he just steps to the side to let Bob go by.

“I’ll move my stuff out tonight,” Patrick hears himself say. “And good luck with the album and everything.” 

Bob pauses in unlocking the deadbolt, looking back at Patrick over his shoulder. “You too,” he says, his voice still tight with emotion, and Patrick thinks suddenly that this might be the last time he ever sees Bob, at least for the foreseeable future. That idea jerks him out of his numb tired fog, and he steps forward and grabs Bob’s sleeve.

“I love you, okay, whether or not you believe it.” Patrick isn't sure whether this is the first time he's said it, and he's not even sure if it's entirely true, just that he wants it to be. 

“Maybe,” Bob says, turning around completely to face Patrick and leaving the keys in the door. There’s a bite in his voice—for the first time tonight, he actually looks a little pissed off. “I don't believe it, but maybe--whatever, okay, I don’t know, but I can’t. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do you think I’ve just been using you?” Patrick says. “Or taking you for granted, or--? I never meant to, I’ve always. Bob, please.” He wants to kiss Bob, he wants to make some big decisive motion, even if it wouldn’t prove anything. 

But Bob is already pulling away. “Yeah, that’s what I think,” he says flatly. “And I know you didn’t mean to. That kind of makes it worse.” He meets Patrick's eyes for a beat, two, and then puts his shades on. 

"Okay," Patrick says, his hands dropping to his sides. "Have a nice life, then." He can't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice, because this is something that was good, it was great, and now it's over. Patrick's already thinking of it in the past tense. 

Bob snorts at him. "You too," he says, in the dry-detached-amused tone of voice Patrick got used to when he first moved in, the voice that Bob doesn't use much if he's actually letting you in. 

Bob opens the door and leaves, and Patrick doesn't ask where he's going. He goes into Bob's room and starts grabbing his boxes, still around from when he moved back in. Packing is automatic for him at this point, a process made smooth and efficient from years of touring, not to mention how much he's moved around since he got to L.A. He gets his shit out of the apartment and back to the old hotel on automatic, and he realizes as soon as he sits down on his new bed that what he really wants to do right now is call Pete.

Which, of _course_ he does. It's so stupidly, simply obvious that Patrick drops his head in his hands and laughs. He can't call Pete and he can't call Bob and he doesn't know what he's going to do now. He feels like he's hit all dead-ends, like he needs to start over completely, needs to try to be someone new. 

The thought feels like a paraphrased line from something Pete's probably written or could write. Patrick laughs again, because he isn't blind to the ways his own mind keeps circling back around. Pete is it, he's just it, and Patrick doesn't know if that makes Bob right or not. He wants to think not, he wants to hold on to the idea that Bob is being horrifically unfair, but at this point he can't lie to himself anymore.

He goes back to the hotel, and soon enough life without Bob becomes routine. He tells the guys and Joe and Andy are sympathetic, even though Patrick's sure they can't have approved of him and Bob in the first place--how could they have? Pete smirks at the news, but he's surprisingly quiet about it. Maybe he can tell that there's nothing he can say to make Patrick feel worse, because Patrick can't really feel worse, not about any of it. He just feels tired.

When Patrick hears the whole, unmastered album for the first time, he doesn’t know what to think. Musically, it’s not a huge departure from their previous work, but then there’s the twisted lyrics, and Patrick’s voice has never sounded so different. His range has improved, but there are qualities to the sound that Patrick can’t quite identify. It’s more genuine but also more raw, and Patrick isn’t sure whether it’s the worst piece of art he’s ever helped create or the best. He thinks he’s probably too close to tell.

When they get it finished and mastered, all Patrick really feels is relief, not pride, not excitement. He wants to put the record, this summer, this fucking city all behind him. He’s been trying not to think about Bob, been doing his best to put it all behind him, but if he isn’t preoccupied with something else, that’s where his mind wanders. He’ll be going about his day and then something will remind him, randomly, and he’ll wonder where Bob is now. He’ll wonder how their promo is going, whether they’ve scheduled their tour yet, how he’s getting along with his band, how he’s getting along without Patrick.

He lets himself drive by the old apartment once, weeks after Bob has moved out of it. It looks the same, and that’s so fucking weird: to think that all of this shit has happened, Patrick’s life has changed so rapidly, but this building still looks the same and the other tenants are still just living their lives. There’s nothing here to even signify that he and Bob were here, that the summer ever happened. 

Pete gives an interview that’s absolutely vicious towards My Chemical Romance. He calls them wannabe-goth has-beens, among other things, and Patrick wants to hit him when he finds out. Because now, of course, there’s a Feud, and journalists aren’t going to ask them about anything that isn’t how much they hate My Chem for months. Every time Patrick sits down to talk to someone about the album, he’s going to have to talk about Bob's band instead.

Patrick doesn't protest when Pete suggests calling the album _Ex-friends,_ except to point out that between this and Pete's hateful statements about My Chem, plenty of people will think it's about Pete and Mikey. He actually likes it for the name of the album--it fits and will be easy to sell, easy to build themes around. It hurts, of course it hurts, but it's not a surprise, and Patrick accepts it.

What *is* surprising is the difficulty that comes with playing _Ex-friends_ live. They play four shows in the U.K. before beginning the Friends or Enemies tour, and when Patrick comes out on stage with Pete, Joe and Andy for the first time in London, he feels dread and hysterical fear thudding in his pulse points. Sure enough, four measures into _40 To Life (Guys Like You)_ Patrick feels himself clam up. His hands keep playing on automatic, but all he can think about is how thousands of fans are going to hear this whole fucked-up summer spilled out from the speakers. He's freaking out more than he ever has onstage, more than he did when he was 16, more than he did when they had to tour Europe without Pete, and when he opens his mouth his voice is shaking and off. 

He barely makes it through the show. He feels ripped open and exposed and he can feel Pete's eyes on him the whole time. As soon as they get offstage Patrick has to sit down, breathing hard, doubled over with this hands on his knees. He feels winded, he feels like someone's punched him in the gut. He has no idea how he's going to do this again two days from now, let alone for two months touring the U.S.

"Get the fuck up." Pete is glaring down at him, and Patrick sits up. "We need to get to the buses, we're scheduled to leave in like half an hour."

"Right, yeah, I'll be there," Patrick says, and his voice still sounds weak to his ears. He clears his throat and stands, and Pete is already walking away.

Patrick tries to do better the next few shows, and it still takes too much out of him, but he gets through performing. He gets through singing Pete's words about him to arenas of people, gets through re-living these experiences in front of a crowd, but he can't bring himself to care that he's performing on a level far beneath the rest of the band.

Two dates into the Friends or Enemies tour, Pete storms into Patrick's hotel room after a particularly dismal show. "We should just get another fucking singer and guitarist," he says, explosive from the start. "You're just a sad sack of shit up there, you realize that?"

Patrick hisses a breath in, because viciousness over their relationship has been one thing, but even after recording he's still not used to Pete talking to him to this way about the music. "Yeah, I'm not at my best," he says. "I know--"

"You know shit," Pete interrupts him, on a roll now. "I thought this band was all you cared about, and now you're not even trying."

Patrick looks away. "You don't have to sing about this, Pete."

"Cry me a river," Pete says, his voice tight. "I thought that if nothing else, you would keep from fucking up the music side of things, but I guess I was wrong."

"You can just--you know, fuck it," Patrick says, and meets Pete's eyes. "I'm not going to pretend that this is what you're *actually* worked up about."

Pete holds Patrick's stare until the silence and space stretches between them, until he finally takes a step back. "Maybe, but whatever," Pete says. "You're playing and singing is terrible. I don't care what you have to do, just. Make it better."

Pete leaves, and Patrick stares at the wall and focuses on his breathing until he hears another knock on the door. He's expecting it to be Pete, back for more jabs, but when he opens his door it's Joe. He looks a little bummed and a little worried, and Patrick lets him in without a word. 

"Hey, man," Joe says. "This is gonna sound dumb, but try not to let Pete get to you."

They sit down and Patrick feels deja vu for a second to the very beginning, when Joe was the only one he knew, when Joe invited him over to his house to jam together. 

"It does sound dumb," Patrick says. "Or I mean, not dumb, but just. Not really possible."

Joe sighs. "Yeah, I know." He touches Patrick's back, rubs between his shoulder blades, and Patrick leans into it. "He'll get over it, though. Eventually," Joe adds quickly when Patrick gives him an incredulous look. "You've just got to let him be Pete."

Patrick swallows. "Easier said than done," he says, and he doesn't mean for it to come out as bitter as it does. Joe makes a sympathetic sound and pulls Patrick into a one-armed hug, and Patrick thinks again of being fifteen, of singing along with songs about heartbreak before he had any idea how it actually felt. 

"You'll be okay, man," Joe says, resting his head on top of Patrick's. "It's just super shitty right now, that's all."

"I hope so," Patrick says, and hugs Joe back. "Thanks for--seriously. Thanks."

Pete doesn't stop picking fights. Usually it's about Patrick's performing, because that still isn't up to what it should be, but sometimes it's about a mess in the tourbus, or something said in an interview. 

When they get off the stage in Houston, Patrick hands his guitar to the tech without even glancing at him, let alone thanking him. "Good enough for you?" he says to Pete. "Did my performance meet your standards this time?"

"To be honest, you're still kind of sucking," Pete says, his voice casual except for the sharpness underneath. "Like, dude, seriously, could you just--"

"Maybe if you got off my fucking case about it," Patrick snaps. He can see Joe and Andy walking quickly ahead of them, already sick of the argument they're getting into, and Patrick wants to walk away, too. But Patrick can't walk away or let it go; it's Pete.

"You're such a pussy," Pete says, following Patrick into the dressing room. "If you can't take the criticism, leave the tour already." 

Patrick hates the snide tone of Pete's voice, the ugly look he'll have on his face if Patrick turns around to see, the way he's succeeded in getting Patrick to lash back at him--he's got Patrick participating actively in moronic fight after moronic fight. Sometimes he thinks Pete's goal is to get Patrick to hate him as much as he hates Patrick, and there are times when Patrick thinks Pete's succeeded.

"Because you're doing everything right, huh?" Patrick says as he grabs a towel, rubbing sweat off his face. "Must be nice that the new material has bass parts that a five-year-old could play."

"At least I'm not sulking up there. At least I'm manning the fuck up." Pete grabs Patrick's shoulder and yanks him around to face him, and yeah, the look on his face is just what Patrick expected, vindictive and smug and angry. "I know you're still sad about your boyfriend dumping you and all--"

"Fuck off," Patrick says, shaking Pete off. "You're loving this, aren't you? You love seeing me fuck up on the tour, you love seeing me depressed, this is all just. God. How many more lashes would you like?"

"Oh, yeah, get all self-righteous. I think I've earned this much schadenfreude, _just_ a little," Pete says, a hard glint to his eyes and the smug smile gone from his face. 

"How many?" Patrick demands again, stepping closer. "I swear, Pete--"

"I don't know!" Pete yells. "I don't--christ--" 

Patrick hears it when Pete's voice shifts abruptly, can see it when Pete changes, and he realizes what's going to happen a split second before Pete grabs his arms and moves them both forward, slamming Patrick against the dressing room wall. Patrick grabs at Pete's hips as Pete leans in, kissing Patrick hard before biting, catching Patrick's bottom lip and worrying it between his teeth. Patrick responds without thinking, pulling them close together and arching up and making sounds he didn't even know he could still make into Pete's mouth.

It happens so fast, Pete shoving his hand down Patrick's pants and the scramble to get belt buckles undone, and it doesn't feel nice when Pete jacks him. It doesn't feel good or sweet but it's working and Patrick can't even process this, can't do anything but fuck Pete's hand. Pete isn't kissing him anymore--Patrick can just see the top of his head as he ducks his head down. And he can hear Pete's harsh uneven breathing, feel Pete's fingers rough against his dick, and Patrick wants to push Pete back enough to let him get a hand inside Pete's pants and return this, but he can't make himself stop clinging to Pete's hips. 

Pete, this is Pete, this is Pete's hips and his hard dick pressed up against Patrick's leg and Pete's hand on his cock. This is the closest Pete's let him since the summer. 

Patrick lets out a sob and Pete growls, like he can tell what Patrick's thinking and he doesn't like it. Pete's still angry, it's crystal clear in every twist of his wrist, and it just makes Patrick tighten his grip and cling. His whole body feels twisted up and shaky when he comes, and Pete humps his leg twice more before Patrick feels him tense up in the telltale way.

Patrick tips his head back and stares at the dingy ceiling, counting the seconds. Pete slumps against him and Patrick slumps against the wall. He wants to wrap his arms around Pete and bury his face in Pete's shoulder. He closes his eyes and holds onto this, the lingering heat between them and Pete's breath in his ear, because he can already feel reality clicking back into place.

Sure enough, when Pete steps back it feels like all the warmth has left the room. Patrick can feel the sweat cooling on his skin, and the air between them feels thick and solid and buzzing with something Patrick can't define. Pete is staring at him. Patrick stares back.

All Patrick can register is shock. If this is—if he’s gotten what he wanted--if this is even what he wanted-- 

Patrick has so many questions that they all get stuck in his throat. _Does this mean you’ve forgiven me?_ and _So just how much do you hate yourself?_ and _Do you still love me?_ What comes out is, “What--why did you just--?”

The look on Pete’s face is hard to read, but it definitely isn’t happy or nice. His jaw is set and there are two spots of color burning on his cheeks, and his hair is dark with sweat from the show and messed up from Patrick’s hands. “I don’t know,” he says. “You—“ he stops, and instead of feeling relieved that Pete is holding himself back from hurling painful insults in Patrick’s direction, he just feels sick.

“So how are we doing this, then?” Patrick says, because already he knows this is not going to be an isolated incident. He can feel semen drying on his pants and he's covered in sweat from the show and he doesn't know how he'd forgotten what Pete tasted like. 

There is no way they won't fuck this up. 

Pete opens his mouth and shuts it again. Then he smiles, an expression that's a little helpless and a lot bizarre, and says “Patrick” before laughing.

“Heh.” Patrick leans back against the wall and looks up at the ceiling, feeling his lips twist into what might look like a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I...."

"I don't think I did this for the right reasons," Pete says, sounding oddly self-aware. His head is cocked to the side a little, and yeah, Patrick can guess. 

"I don't know what the right reasons are anymore," Patrick says. "Are we--I mean. Is this going to happen again?" he demands, even though he knows, he knows.

"Fuck if I know," Pete says, and his old viciousness is back, the ugliness in his eyes when he looks at Patrick. 

Patrick wants to ask for a magic rewind button to make the past two years never have happened. Fuck the success of the band, the label, fuck the big house he's bought; fuck falling in love twice. He just wants to go back to 2004, before Pete started going downhill enough to down those pills, before it was no longer possible for Patrick to not be in love with him. He wants to go back to having a best friend.

Patrick reaches out to touch Pete, grabs his sleeve. He doesn't know what he's planning, what he wants, and Pete just looks down at Patrick's fingers.

"We have to figure this out," Patrick says, and his own voice sounds desperate and broken, sounds like Pete.

Pete takes in a breath and closes his eyes. Patrick can tell that there are any number of cruel, correct things that Pete could say but isn't. He also isn't shaking Patrick's hand off his arm, and if Patrick were looking at this as Pete's best friend, uninvolved, he'd tell Pete to say no. He'd advise Pete not to go back to someone who's betrayed him--he'd say that for once in his life, Pete should resist getting addicted to something that hurts him.

Pete eventually looks up to meets Patrick's eyes. "We should go," he says. "I need new pants, and if we're not on the buses soon, they'll send someone back here to look for us."

"Sure," Patrick says. He lets go when Pete brushes past him, and follows Pete out of the room.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Sounds' Song With A Mission. There's a lot of screwing with timelines in this, and it goes increasingly AU after November 2005.
> 
> Major thanks to everyone who listened to me gnash my teeth or saw parts of this as I was writing it, but especially stereomer for cheerleading and whining alongside me, and miss_saigon for listening to my wailing in person, for helping me figure out each step from the very beginning, for beta-ing, for everything. This wouldn't have been written without your help.


End file.
